


Ill Equipped

by ghostwriterly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Domestic Fluff, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romantic Comedy, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 72,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriterly/pseuds/ghostwriterly
Summary: Jack's first mistake was getting drunk in a salsa club with Kent Parson.Or, the accidental Vegas married AU no one asked for.





	1. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas--unless it's officiated by Elvis.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I owe everything in this fluff pile to Ngozi. Immediately go read [ Check Please! ](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com) You'll thank me later.

_My first mistake,_ Jack thought, _was getting drunk in a salsa club with Kent Parson._

Well. Maybe his first mistake was letting Kent talk him into going out after the game at all. He should have just met him in the hotel lobby for a quick drink, (grudgingly) congratulated him on a well-deserved win, and then gone back to his room to sulk in peace.

Jack glanced around the dark interior of the bar, the press of bodies too close, his latent claustrophobia exacerbated by how fast his head was currently spinning. He frowned at the overly large (and nearly empty) novelty glass he was holding; what the hell had he been drinking anyway? Kent had shoved the brightly-hued concoction into his hands before twirling away from him on the arm of a very dark—and very pretty—boy, and he had barely seen him since. Which meant, objectively, that Jack _could_ leave. He could walk right out the exit, hail a cab, figure out where, exactly, his room was, and go the fuck to sleep. Easy peasy.

Jack stared at the crowd separating him from his nice, warm, king-sized bed. The number of dancers had grown in size just since he’d been contemplating his escape, and when the song shifted a cheer went up, the bodies even more alive than before. For a split second, Jack envied them their unrestrained abandon. Had he ever felt that way, even once? He couldn’t remember—maybe. Maybe when he was very young. Before perfection was his default setting, before the eyes of the world were waiting to judge.

Out of the dark, a small figure spun toward him, close enough to touch, bright laughter cutting through the pulsating beat. There was a flash of a smile, a glimpse of a freckled nose, and then Jack found himself with an armful of what the buzz in his head could only define as _sunshine._ He was golden hair and laughing brown eyes, small in stature but with surprisingly strong fingers that hooked right through his belt loops and dragged a dumbfounded (and entirely too drunk) Jack onto the dance floor.

 _Fuck_ , was Jack’s first reaction to the gentle _bump_ of the stranger’s ass into the cradle of his groin. The height differential was intoxicating, and he swayed forward, exhaling into the blonde’s hair as his hands found purchase on lithe hips. It must have been the right thing, or the exact wrong one, because then the little demon threw back his head, nestling into Jack’s chest and closing his eyes, grinding in a rhythmic sway that had Jack mimicking his movements before he even had time to process.

Jack had lost his fishbowl of a glass, somewhere in the press of heated skin, not even noticing until he felt hot lips at his throat, fingers pushing deep into the cords of his neck. It was sex, hot and dirty and tempting, fully clothed and encased by people. The music shifted again, another crowd-pleaser, and they were pushed backward, toward the bar, into a dark corner, which only served to encourage his tempter more, as he rode his thigh and whispered, hot against his ear.

“Buy me a drink, beautiful?”

Jack, newly possessed by the devil himself, didn’t answer. He grabbed the guy under the ass and lifted, grunting in satisfaction when strong thighs wrapped around his waist. He deposited him ass first on the bar and flicked an eyebrow at the bartender in the four seconds he could bear to take his eyes off his dance partner’s collarbone. It was glistening with sweat, an almost pearly sheen, and Jack had the strongest urge to lick the smooth skin. And then maybe rip the rest of his clothes off and find somewhere—anywhere—to assuage the unbearable heat that was building low in his stomach. It pooled there now, the center of his gravity, and he knew there was only one out.

Jack ducked his head and bit into the soft base of his unlikely partner’s throat. Strong fingers tightened in his hair, a sharp twist, and then pushed him closer, holding him there. Under Jack’s hands, the tight little hips wriggled in pleasure.

He came up for air when his head was tugged sharply upward. He blinked.

“Cash or card?” The guy asked, breathless and jerking his head toward the shot glasses lined up along the bar. He had a wet, purpling mark at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and it gave Jack a potent hit of absolute possession.

Jack reluctantly dug out his wallet, tossing a hundred dollar bill at the bartender before throwing back two shots in quick succession.

Liquid brown eyes studied him with something that reminded Jack, incongruously, of a faceoff before the guy deliberately threw back his own two drinks. _“Fuck,_ ” he shuddered on the second, breath catching in his throat.

“Yes,” Jack replied, picking him up again and thrusting them both into the throng.

 

_/ \\_

“Is this your room?” The blonde asked.

“Fuck, I hope so,” Jack moaned, swiping frantically at the door, cursing when it blinked red.

“Let me, Jesus Christ.” Small fingers, more nimble, made quick work of the lock, and then yanked Jack over the threshold, falling into him in a tangle of toned arms and tequila-scented breath. His forehead fell against Jack’s chest and he laughed. “Shit. I’m wasted.”

The words gave Jack pause, cutting through a sharp haze of desire. “We don’t have to—”

“The fuck you say!” The blonde replied indignantly, poking Jack hard in the center of his sternum. He dissolved into giggles when his words registered. “Literally,” he snorted, which set Jack off, and Jack _never_ giggled.

“Come on, beautiful,” Brown Eyes said, backing toward the bed and pulling Jack by the hand. “I’m going to rock your world. “

“Jack,” Jack replied, following, gladly.

Those lovely eyes twinkled in response. “Eric.”

Jack lunged with a grin, tackling him mid thigh and falling with him onto the big, wide bed. “That’s enough talking.”

Eric gave a mock salute and then grabbed Jack by the ears to pull him into a scorching kiss.

Jack’s brain short circuited for a  heartbeat, then two, heat pulsing between them again, searing and bold, and he wondered, abstractly, just what and how much they had had to drink.

Then Eric slipped a knee between his thighs and he didn’t care.

He rode the wave, bombarded by sensation, grinding onto Eric’s leg, looking for friction, confused for a moment when Eric grunted and broke free.

“Take off your fucking shirt, _God._ ”

Jack chuckled and let Eric pull the dark Henley over his head, enjoying like hell the way his mouth went slack when faced with a half-naked Jack Zimmermann.

“Jesus.”

Jack ducked his head to suck at his pulse point, ears burning. _Too much_.

“Ooh,” Eric cooed, running his hands up and down Jack’s broad back. “Are you a shy one? Fuck, that’s hot.”

“Shut up,” Jack mumbled, nipping at his jaw. “And get naked.”

“Make me,” Eric challenged, the rocking nudge of his knee against Jack’s dick enough to make him see stars.

Jack scooped one arm under Eric’s waist and rolled, flipping neatly onto his back.

It was Eric’s turn to blink, now mostly upright and straddling Jack’s hips. He barked a laugh as Jack’s hands made quick work of his t-shirt and fly. “Well aren’t you agile.”

“Athlete,” Jack grunted, glancing pointedly at Eric’s crotch as he tugged downward on his pants.

“Pardon me,” Eric said primly, lifting his hips and letting Jack pull his jeans down. Huffing a laugh at Jack’s struggle, he rolled off the bed and to his feet, grinning at Jack’s disappointed whimper, before shimmying the tight denim down his legs and kicking it aside.

He wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Jack grabbed his own dick closed his eyes. He mentally counted in his head, only making it to four before a supple, warm body was on top of him, knees bracing his chest. Suddenly overwhelmed with all of that warm, golden skin, his for the taking, Jack didn’t know where to start. His fingers twitched as he swallowed, _hard._

Eric bent over, ghosting a kiss across his cheek and drawing Jack’s hands to his body. “Well come on, then, beautiful. Make me feel good.” He brought Jack’s wrist to his lips and mouthed at the smooth skin there, eyes heavy lidded. The other hand he pushed between his legs, breath hot on Jack’s palm.

Jack felt his entire body come back online, a jolt of electricity when his knuckles brushed the velvet skin of Eric’s erection, and suddenly the most important thing in his life was Eric making _that sound_ again. He repeated the motion before taking him in his hand, the angle slightly awkward, but the inconvenience a pittance to pay when Eric’s skin bloomed pink all the way to his navel. Getting an idea, an incredibly dirty and—for Jack—insane idea, he pulled his hand from Eric’s now weakened grasp and cupped his ass, urging him forward. Eric’s eyes widened before his face split open in a grin.

“Oh _fuck_ yes.” Then it was his turn to shock, when he gathered all the pillows and stuffed them under Jack’s head. At Jack’s raised brow he shrugged. “Wouldn’t want you to be gettin’ a crick.”

And while Jack appreciated the sentiment (and was more than a little intrigued by the unexpected appearance of a southern twang) his mouth was watering and Eric’s dick was _right there,_ and it had been a really long time since he had wanted to taste something quite this badly.

He should have taken it slow. Eric’s keening groan and hard shudder told him that much, but c’est la vie and the night was young (or not), because this was good and this was _now_ and _Jesus,_ he was wonderful. Musky and tart, earthy and sweet, responsive in a way Jack had rarely experienced with other lovers (not that he’d had that many to begin with). Jack used everything he had ever learned, though, concentrating on the fine tremble under Eric’s skin, and the pretty sounds falling from his throat, using them as a map to _make him feel good._ He nuzzled into the soft brown hair at Eric’s groin, making him laugh, carefree and unexpected, a sound that quickly broke into a wheezing moan when Jack sucked at his slit, the only warning he gave before swallowing him down.

“Shit, fuck,” Eric jerked forward, chasing Jack’s mouth, and then apologized, breathless and wanton. “Sorry, sorry.”

Jack ignored him; he had a job to do and he was nothing if not dedicated. And thorough. He nuzzled him again when he pulled off, before licking up his length, reaching his goal and then back again, pressing a gentle kiss to the cut of Eric’s hips when he needed a moment to catch his breath. And then he was ready to go again, Eric watching him with those beautiful dark eyes, sometimes stunned, sometimes joyful, sometimes slack mouthed and whimpering, twitching with need while Jack took his time getting him off. 

“Jack, Jack—”

It was the only warning Jack had, and while he normally didn’t, he wanted to experience this night in totality. It somehow seemed appropriate.

It was a lot, but Eric’s pleasure and awe was more, as he petted Jack’s jaw as he swallowed and sucked, wincing and retreating when it became too much. Then he collapsed beside Jack in a gorgeous, unbelievable, golden spectacle the likes of which Jack had never known.

“Just give me two minutes, sugar, and I’ll be ready to reciprocate.”

Jack snorted, rolling against him, filled with an uncharacteristic need to _cuddle,_ and watched that lovely flush recede. He took his dick in his own hand and pulled slowly, thinking about all the ways he’d like to do this again.

Eric opened one eye, gaze falling to Jack’s slowly pumping fist. “Hey now, that’s mine.”

“Yours, huh?” Jack smirked. He marveled at the easy banter and the lack of self-consciousness; that was new. He wondered if it was Vegas or if it was Eric and if the latter, if he could keep him.

“For tonight,” Eric quipped, but there was a flash of something behind his eyes.

Jack didn’t have time to ponder on it overmuch, because Eric’s two minute rest period was apparently a real thing and he was rolling on top of him and whispering all of Jack’s wildest, most secret desires into his ear like the dirtiest clairvoyant known to man.

Yeah, Jack would keep him, if he could.

_/ \\_

Jack was dying, if the pounding behind his eyes was any indication. He had forgotten to pull the shades closed the night before and he could _feel_ the warmth of the Vegas sunrise, pouring across his bed and lighting his brain on fire. He tried to roll away from the offensive intrusion and winced; _fuck_ he was sore.

His eyes popped open. Something…something was off. He gingerly touched his head, feeling along his crown for a knot; had he hit his head in the game? He was fuzzy, the previous night a blur of game then Kent then salsa then— _Oh._

Jack sat up quickly, the sheet pooling around his bare hips. 

“Time’s it?” The lump under the sheet mumbled.

_Oh._

Bits and pieces flooded back, disjointed and unclear, except for two very distinct memories: the strongest orgasm Jack had ever had…

And Elvis.


	2. Pure Vanilla is Superior

“I can’t be married! My mama will _kill_ me!”

It would seem that the hint of southern drawl really blossomed when Eric was upset.

He was currently pacing in front of the expansive wall of windows in Jack’s hotel room, alternating between forlorn looks at the cheesy die-topped ring occupying prime real estate on his left hand, and moaning unintelligibly. There were occasional snippets that Jack could pick out— _Coach, Pastor Rick,_ and _MamaDearGod_.

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. To say this was the most awkward morning after he’d ever experienced was putting it mildly. First there had been the sheer horror of _ohmygod I’m naked and not alone,_ then the _ohmygod I don’t remember you,_ followed by the _whatthefuck is on my finger?!_

He glanced at the windows. Sleep worn Eric was adorable. It was a detail that had popped into Jack’s head unbidden the instant he had climbed out of Jack’s sheets, and then flatly refused to leave. The admission (even if only to himself) was a grudging allowance, considering each new utterance of _oh God_ _my life is over!_ was kicking Jack’s anxiety into overdrive. Grudging, yes. Untrue? No. Eric was dressed in those damnable tight jeans and nothing else, his bare toes curled in the plush carpet. His hair was a wreck, the cutest cowlick ever swirling skyward from his crown. In the bright light of morning, Jack could see, plainly, all of the details the darkened bar and drunken midnight sex had hidden: a sweet smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, a tightly compact body, honed in a way that spoke of athleticism. A shapely little ass that even now was making Jack’s palms sweat.

_Focus._

“I’m probably going to vomit. I hate to vomit,” Eric muttered, dropping his forehead to the cool pane of glass with a heavy sigh.

Jack knew he shouldn’t be offended because, _hell_ —he didn’t want to be married either! But it stung in a nonsensical way, to know that Eric found the whole situation so appalling—and Jack didn’t think Eric even knew who he was. Not that it mattered, it had apparently been all kinds of liberating, to be anonymous, uninhibited by his own pseudo-fame and tortuous psyche. This was all so _profoundly_ out of Jack’s league, that if not for a frantic 9:00 a.m. phone call to Georgia, the Falconer’s assistant GM, he might be right there beside Eric, vying for a date with the porcelain throne.

Georgia—George—had a way of speaking to Jack, though, cool and succinct and sensible, that had always calmed him down, going all the way back to when she was a second year assistant and Jack was her first rookie. It had been no different this morning. After her initial pause (Jack figured he had been the _last_ player she was worried about getting into PR trouble in Vegas) she had said she would send someone over ASAP and they would take care of it. “But seriously, Jack. When you get home, there’s a bottle of wine in my kitchen with your name on it. I need deets.” When her bright laughter had boomed across the line, Jack had hung up on her, but he was calmer regardless. George might be his boss, but she was also a good friend _._

He had then tried to relay a sense of George’s serene matter of factness to Eric, along with several variations on a theme of _please calm down,_ but Eric had continued to stare at the very official looking Certificate of Marriage in his hands (found near the door, along with Jack’s underwear— _dear God_ ) and mutter about the absolute superiority of pure vanilla. Jack’s eyes fell to the paper, now resting on the coffee table, his chest tight. It had been signed by both of them, if sloppily, and from all appearances (George would _love_ this), Eric had yet to recognize his “new” name (Eric had written along the margins of the paper, variations of _Jack and Eric Zimmermannnnnn,_ in beautiful penmanship, followed by X’s and O’s and little hearts). 

 _Only you, Jack. I swear to God!_ George had said. Jack didn’t want to think too hard about what she had meant by that. He knew what the other players thought of him, it wasn’t like he hadn’t been chirped on (and off) the ice for years about what he considered dedication and everyone else saw as _machine._ He ground his teeth together thinking about what they, or _God,_ the press, would say if this got out. _Wound too tight. It was bound to happen—just like when he was a teen. Fell off the wagon—or the deep end!_

“Jack?”

Jack blinked and glanced up. It was the first time Eric had spoken directly to him in over an hour. “Yeah?”

“Someone’s at the door.” Eric was watching him closely, curious expression on his face. He had folded his arms over his chest, hugging himself in a protective gesture, and Jack took a step toward him, swept forward under a sudden and overwhelming protectiveness. His instincts were telling him to pull Eric close and hold him, hide him from whatever awaited them on the other side of the persistent knock, but he stopped when common sense prevailed.  

He didn’t know Eric at all.

He turned toward the door, pausing at a small sound of protest from behind him.

“I need—I mean. Can I borrow a shirt?” Eric was nearly chewing his bottom lip apart, and Jack had a sneaking suspicion he might be fighting tears. He looked so small and forlorn, backlit by the bright light of the windows, and Jack was an asshole of the first degree. He was hit with another flash of memory, Eric dancing in his arms, shirt black and loose and driving him mad with flashes of collarbone and shoulder. They had found it earlier too, near the marriage certificate and the boxers—ripped from neck to navel, ruined.

“Of course. Here.” Jack walked quickly to his suitcase, glad for a moment’s reprieve, heat prickling up the back of his neck. He rifled through his carryon; he had packed light, but he still had things to choose from, things that weren’t a _Property of the Providence Falconers_ t-shirt. He ignored the skip in his pulse when he tossed the tee to Eric, unable to completely hide a grin at Eric’s incredulous look when he read the logo.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

Jack’s grin grew, the moment oddly endearing. _What am I doing?_ Instead of answering, he said, “I’ll get the door.” It wasn’t the time, for a myriad of reasons, to dwell on how vital it was that he see Eric in that shirt, on how much he wanted to shut out the world for a few more hours (or days) and just _be,_ ask all the questions swirling around in his head, take the damn t-shirt—all the t-shirts—and toss them out the window so Eric stayed golden, accessible _._ Jack didn’t know if it was the situation or Eric himself, but he felt more alive as he walked to the hotel room door than he’d felt in a long, long time. At least off the ice.

The knock came again, louder, just as he unhooked the safety latch. _At least we were safe,_ he thought, and then blanched with the realization that he technically couldn’t confirm that that applied to _everything_ they had done, not by memory alone.

He replaced the latch. “Give us a moment,” he called through the door. He faced Eric, dread pooling in his stomach. Eric—who was so different this morning than the flashes of heat and sass that Jack remembered from last night, who was now subdued and almost…sweet. And very, very young.

Jack had a sudden and horrifying thought.

“How old are you?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Legal.”

“Fuck.” Jack raked his fingers through his hair, twisting the dark strands and pulling; _maybe the pain will wake me up._

Eric snorted. “I’m kidding.”

“Does that mean you’re _not_ legal?” Jack had never really understood how someone’s entire life could flash before their eyes until that moment.

Eric sighed, an edge to his voice when he spoke. “I’m trying very hard not to be offended right now. I’m twenty.” He seemed to consider Jack for a beat before very deliberately crossing the room.

Jack sucked in a breath, light-headed and unsteady when Eric stopped two feet away and stuck out one hand.

“Eric Bittle, Samwell University Junior of Samwell, Massachusetts.” He quirked his head back and forth. “By way of Georgia.”

“Samwell? You go to Samwell?” Jack stared, caught off guard by the unexpected revelation that Eric lived less than an hour from him, that maybe—

“You all right, hoss?”

“Good hockey team,” Jack covered, poorly.

Eric grinned. “Thanks. We try.”

He was puffed up a little, which only served to draw Jack’s eyes to his chest, still bare, the Falconers t-shirt slung over one shoulder. There was a faint bruise just above a dusky pink nipple. Jack licked his lips before taking the extended hand and squeezing, trying desperately to remember words. “You play?” _How._

“Oh don’t you even start, Mr. All-Canadian Hockey Man.”

Jack blinked. “Wait. You know who I am _?_ ” He should probably be embarrassed that Eric had made him squeak not once, but _twice_ this morning—and neither time had anything to do with sex. (A situation Jack was rapidly tiring of if he was perfectly honest.)

 Eric shrugged. “I didn’t want to make you self-conscious. Besides,” he grinned. “In the club, when you looked at me like that…” he shrugged again as if Jack should understand.

Jack didn’t understand.

“Like what?” Jack asked, perplexed. He barely remembered being in the club, although he vaguely recalled dancing, and the stinging bite of expensive tequila.

Eric wrinkled his nose. “Like you were hungry. And I was lunch.”

Jack flushed crimson, studying his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was hot, and clearly I didn’t mind.”

When Jack chanced a glance, Eric was smiling, one hand raking through his messy hair,  the morning sun choosing just that moment to lance across the room, glinting off of the gaudy ring on his finger. Jack sobered. “I’m still sorry. About all of this. We’ll figure it out.”

There was a long pause in which they studied one another openly and Jack felt his cheeks heat again, but it was okay because Eric’s were pink too.

Eric opened his mouth but they were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. 

 _“_ Mr. Zimmermann, please!” A voice called.

Jack frowned but Eric was already hurrying to pull on the shirt.

He looked good in it.

Jack silently cursed himself and unlatched the door.


	3. Buffets and Boarding Passes

“First, I’ve arranged for a car to take you to the airport.” The lawyer glanced at his watch. “It will be here in two hours.” He retrieved an envelope from inside his briefcase and passed it to Jack. “Your boarding passes.”

“Wait, passes like plural?” Eric looked at Jack, eyes wide. “I can’t fly home with you, I’m here with friends. We’re flying home tonight.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

Jack felt Eric tense beside him. “I don’t see what difference it makes. Why does Eric need to fly with me, when we’ll be going separate places?”

The lawyer, West, gave them both a quizzical look. “Have either of you checked your social media this morning? Watched the news, perhaps?”

 _Uh oh._ Jack felt his stomach sink right down to his toes. “No, why?” His tone was so sharp even Eric shrank away from him. He nearly reached for his hand in reassurance before he remembered: _not mine._

West raised both brows and blew out a heavy breath. “Well. It would seem the two of you were quite busy last night.” He became flustered when he realized what he had said. “I mean—” he waved in the general direction of their hands.

“We know what you mean,” Jack ground out between his teeth. “What did we do?”

“ _You_ ,” West chuckled. “Broke your aversion to social media and created an Instagram. You even posted your first photo. A selfie.”

“Shit.” Jack’s mouth worked.

“Oh God,” Eric mumbled, holding his stomach before jumping up to grab his phone from the nightstand. Jack noticed that when he dropped back into place beside him, he tucked himself in tight from hip to knee, in a way that felt personal, as though he needed the contact. Eric's thumbs flew across the phone's screen. “Oh, _God,”_ he repeated.He turned the phone in Jack’s direction; it wasn’t any ordinary selfie. They were naked from the waist up (and probably from the waist down, Jack thought, stomach churning), their heads snuggled together on a single pillow, wide smiles shining in the poorly lit room. The hashtag read simply #ido.

Jack paled at the absurd number of likes and comments. “I don’t—I can’t.” He closed his eyes and bit into his cheek hard enough to bleed. He had never had a social media presence by choice, because he hated people intruding where they didn’t belong, into his private business, talking about him, looking for things to pick apart. He had always known they still _would;_ he just didn’t want to personally witness it on a daily basis.

Eric grabbed his knee and squeezed, and Jack exhaled, trying to remember there was more than just him and his feelings, his reputation, at stake here.

West cleared his throat. “That’s not all, I’m afraid.” He dug his own phone from his suit pocket and pulled up TMZ’s website. “Someone videotaped the, ah, service.” He pressed play, but Jack was already shaking his head.

“That’s enough,” Eric said, voice brittle. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “So it’s out. Everyone knows.”

“Yes.” West's face was not unkind, but he wasn’t mincing words, which was comforting in its own way, Jack mused. He didn't think he could stand any more surprises.  

West appeared to be waiting for him to respond, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You’re saying we don’t have... plausible deniability.”

“That is exactly what I’m saying.”

Jack couldn’t look at Eric. He was already so tightly wound Jack could feel him trembling against his side. “So now what?” He asked flatly. He hadn’t presumed he would remain effectively _in the closet_ for the duration of his career in the NHL, but he sure as hell hadn’t meant to make quite such a fuss about his sexual preferences either. He would have to call his parents. He would have to call his agent; hell his agent was probably apoplectic.  The man was very, very good at his job, but he was one of those type A personalities that required advance notice for even the smallest change in details, who made an itemized itinerary for all of Jack's professional appearances. (Which meant normally he and Jack got on like a house afire.)

“For now we get you both home, where you lay low until your personal attorneys can advise on how to proceed.”

“Lay low.” Jack barely withheld a snort.

“I have class tomorrow,” Eric said softly.

West looked from Jack to Eric and then back again, for the first time appearing unsure.

“He’s a junior at Samwell University,” Jack supplied, grateful he knew enough to provide the tiny tidbit. He felt uncomfortably _dirty;_ this man knew he and Eric had gotten drunk and had sex. This complete stranger—as well as countless faceless, nameless strangers around the world—knew that they had had sex—and bonus! Gotten married in a cheesy Vegas ceremony. A ceremony he had no memory of, but plenty of other people had already witnessed. He felt a tickle at the base of his throat; he hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack in years, but he could sense one looming.

West began to gather his things, glancing at Eric. “I would hold off on returning to classes until you see Mr. Zimmermann’s lawyers, and the PR department for the team. They will have a plan in place for you by the time you touch down.”

Jack could feel Eric’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t reciprocate. He was too busy trying to breathe. _In. Out._

“Is that all?” Eric asked. Jack thought his voice sounded very far away.

“Yes. I mean, you need to meet the car and get to the airport in one piece, but yes. My part in this is essentially complete.”

“Then thank you, Mr. West, seriously, but I think it would be best if we had a little time alone to process.”

Jack felt rather than saw Eric usher West to the door. He had covered his face with his hands, blocking out the sun, the room, the lawyer, _Eric._ He couldn’t do it, do _this._ He was better than this, and so was Eric; he didn’t know how he knew that but he did. Eric deserved better. He deserved—

There was a cool hand at the back of Jack’s neck, nails scraping lightly through his hair, then higher, combing across his crown.

“Just breathe.”

A cheek against his temple, palms gently covering his ears, blocking out any ambient sounds.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

The oily terror began to recede, no longer choking off his air.  As though he could sense when it faded, Eric’s hands slipped down to Jack’s shoulders and he squeezed once, firmly, before releasing him and sitting down on the coffee table in front of him.

Jack blinked his eyes open slowly, unsure of what he would find in Eric’s expression. Pity? Fear? Disgust?

“You okay?”

Understanding was the last thing Jack expected to find shining back from Eric’s eyes, but there it was. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m probably still gonna puke later,” he quipped. “You can hold my hair.”

Jack laughed softly, the last of the tension leaving him. He rolled his neck. “Thank you. How did you…?” He didn’t know what he was asking, exactly. But no one had ever done that for him, brought him back from a panic attack like that, with cool, calm efficiency.

Eric shrugged. “I spent the past few summers back home volunteering at a shelter for women and children. It got me interested in counseling and I—” he smiled sadly. “I picked up a few things.”

 _Yeah_. Jack could imagine. He tried not to start when Eric’s hands slid forward to cover his knees, but it was a close thing. It must have been an unconscious movement, or maybe Eric was particularly tactile; there didn’t seem to be any additional motive for the touch. Jack thought of the close way Eric had sat next to him on the couch. It was comforting, to imagine that maybe Eric needed him in some way, needed a grounding force in the hurricane that was about to become their life.

“It was a little weird,” Eric said softly. “At first, I mean. How the little kids took to me. I was barely trained. I was there to do crafts and baking and whatnot, and they told me not to expect too much, that the men in their lives had been the monsters under their bed, in their closet. I wasn’t a threat, of course, but I didn’t expect them to understand that. But they did. I don’t know how.”

“I’m not surprised.” Jack tentatively covered one of Eric’s hands with his own, meeting his gaze. “You’re like the anxiety whisperer.”

Eric grinned, his troubled eyes clearing for the first time since they had woken up. “Oh I like that. Wait til I tell Shitty.”

“Shitty?” Jack tilted his head with a frown.

“Oh lord, I forget how that sounds to strangers!”

It was back in full force, the thick, warm drawl, like honey on a biscuit.

Jack was hungry.

On cue, his stomach growled.

Eric’s eyes twinkled. “You think we have time to hit the buffet before this fancy hired car of yours gets here?”

Jack stared at him for a beat, drowning in molten chocolate and soft freckles and a blush so sweet that it spurred something to life, somewhere deep. Somewhere he didn’t normally visit anymore. “Only one way to find out.”

“Well all right.” Eric jumped to his feet. “Let’s brush first though, okay? One of us,” he pointed behind his palm at Jack. “Has morning breath.”

“Fuck you,” Jack chuckled.

Then he didn’t watch Eric’s ass even one single bit as he trotted ahead of him into the bathroom.

_/ \\_

“Bitty!”

“Bits, Jesus Christ!”

Jack blinked, a forkful of eggs frozen mid-air as their table was surrounded by a raucous group that had to be Eric’s friends. One of them was staring at him, mouth dropped open.

“Cheese whiz, you’re Jack Zimmermann!”

Eric fought his way out from under a tangle of arms. “Guys, for the love of Pete, lower your voices and grab a chair. Chowder close your mouth.”

Jack smiled at the fond look he threw his way, as if to say, _can you believe these idiots?_ Jack had never gone to college, entering the NHL draft at eighteen, and this, the obvious connection and shared history and camaraderie, well—it was enviable. There was some of that, of course, in playing for a team. But Jack had always wondered if he had missed out in some way. He had never been very good at making friends, too socially awkward as a child and preteen, and then too immersed in hockey to ever learn how.

There was a flurry of introductions, the only one of which Jack remembered was the ubiquitous _Shitty,_ who was watching him with a calculating gaze, his mouth pursed behind an impressive mustache. He seemed older than the others, even discounting the facial hair, and Jack made a mental note to ask Eric about him.

Five seconds later he flushed, realizing his brain had automatically went somewhere it technically didn’t have a right to go. He didn’t know if Eric would even want to talk to him later, or at any point in the future. He was the outsider at this table, and that became more obvious as the chatter calmed but didn’t cease, the gentle ribbing tinting Eric’s cheeks a permanently rosy hue.

“Anyway!” Eric chirped, clearly trying to change the subject. Shitty was on his left, trying valiantly to pry the large gold ring from Eric’s hand.

“Bitty my dude, you’re gonna have to, like, have it cut off.”

Eric snatched his hand back. “Shush, you. Little Crisco and it’ll slide right over my knuckle. You’ll see.”

“Bitty?” Jack asked, sipping his coffee to hide his strange reaction at seeing another man trying to remove _his_ wedding ring.

Okay not his _. Not his._

He carefully moved his left hand under the table, so his own Vegas-themed ring remained hidden. It was gold, to match Eric’s, covered in a Greek key pattern and interspersed with large, truly  hideous, glittering rhinestones. Jack fully expected his finger to be green before the day was out. He should probably take it off too.

“Because he’s just the itty bittiest thing!” One of Eric’s teammates was cackling, ruffling Eric’s hair, which resulted in a verbal beatdown that made Jack chuckle despite his nervousness and spate of discomfort.

“Hockey nick?” Jack asked, trying vainly to stay in the conversation, recognizing Eric would need these people to have his back in the coming days and weeks. Nicknames were a natural part of the game, one slice of the camaraderie he had always been able to enjoy. _Bitty._ Jack rolled the name around in his mind, applying it to the little spitfire seated across from him, who was currently volleying spars with a duo—one tall and blonde, one dark-skinned and perhaps too flirty—over Jack’s selfie. The nickname suited him, Jack thought, as he let the banter weave around him.

Eric was the one to eventually answer him, if somewhat belated. “Yes, hockey. They think they’re so clever,” he rolled his eyes.

“It suits you.”

“D’awww,” a teammate to Jack’s left cooed. He lifted his phone to Jack’s face and snapped a photo.

“Dex! No!” Eric held out a hand, his face ferocious, until the player handed over his phone. Eric deleted the photo and tossed it back. He looked around the suddenly quiet table, meeting each of their eyes with a firm expression. “Jack is not a zoo animal.” He deflated a little, throwing Jack an apologetic glance. “Look, it’s not going to be easy for a few days. For me, but especially for Jack. Don’t be dicks.”

“Eric, it’s okay,” Jack interjected. He smiled tentatively at the player. “Although I do prefer to be asked. Selfie?”

The kid’s eyes lit up and he leaned in close to take the photo.

“Jack,” Eric said in exasperation. “I was finally in control.”

“Bits, you’re never in control,” Shitty laughed.

“I am too!”

“Nah, we just let you think that so you’ll keep cooking,” the blonde smirked.

“And cleaning!” Chirped another.

And just like that the somber moment passed, and the teasing banter didn’t just weave around Jack, it included him too, barely there razzing as though they were sussing him out. When his phone buzzed, Jack was shocked to see an hour had passed.

_Your driver has arrived. There will be a hotel staff member in the lobby to escort you to the car. Just in case._

Jack assumed the unknown number was West, so he tapped out a quick _thanks_ and looked up to find Eric watching him.

“Show time?” Eric asked, face suddenly wistful as he glanced around the table at his friends.

Jack took a deep breath and nodded. “Show time.”


	4. Grass Juice and Coca-Cola

The hotel representative outside of the elevator ushered Jack and Eric so efficiently through the lobby that the lingering photographers barely had time to snap a shot of the back of their heads. Jack ducked into the back seat of the waiting car behind Eric, exhaling when the door closed and blocked out the frustrated shouts and annoyingly bright pops of flash. Eric looked a little shell-shocked, so Jack bumped his shoulder good naturedly. “That wasn’t so bad, right?”

Eric scrunched his nose. “As opposed to what?” He rubbed his temple with a sigh. “I have a headache.”

Jack did too. “Me too.” He bit his lip before leaning forward to tap on the glass separating them from the driver. “Do you think we have time for a pit stop?”

“You’re the boss,” the driver shrugged with a grin. She maneuvered the car deftly through the traffic on the strip. “What’dya need?”

Jack looked at Eric, brows raised.

“Excedrin. And a Coke,” Eric said with a definitive nod.

Jack grinned at the driver and she chuckled. “Excedrin and a Coke it is. Rite-Aid work for ya? Not too many paps hanging out at the Rite-Aid.”

“That would be perfect.” Jack sat back, catching himself just before he threw an arm around Eric’s— _Bitty’s—_ shoulders. It was easy, so easy, just to _be_ with him. The anxiety Jack had woken up with had long since dissipated, and he didn’t feel any of the usual pressure to make conversation or appear in any way other than exactly as he was. The atmosphere in the car was comfortable, _safe._ For one of the arguably bigger mistakes of his life, Jack felt shockingly okay. Maybe even a little bit happy. When the driver pulled into a parking spot near the drugstore’s entrance, he realized with a start that he was smiling. He glanced down at Eric, feeling weirdly breathless. “Do you want me to—?”

“And have you coming back with some generic, herbal, all-natural tea poultice and a bottle of spring water? Heck no!” Eric clambered right over his lap and out into the bright Las Vegas sunshine.

Jack blinked and then followed him, ignoring the driver’s snort of laughter. He found Eric down an aisle of pain medications.

“You didn’t have to get out,” Eric muttered, scanning the shelves, index finger leading the way.

“But then who would buy my tea poultice?”

Eric slapped at him without looking, which Jack easily sidestepped with a smirk.

“Rats,” Eric frowned, squatting down to glare at an empty spot on the shelf.

Jack admired the tight stretch of denim across Eric’s thighs. “Uh,” he cleared his throat.  “What?”

“They’re out.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are.”

“No. They’re not.” Jack bent over to grab a green and white box. “See? Excedrin.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “That’s _not_ Excedrin _Migraine_. That’s,” he jabbed a finger at the label. “ _Excedrin_ Excedrin _._ ”

“It’s probably the same thing, just a different package.”

“Bite your tongue,” Eric protested hotly. “Excedrin Migraine is a _god_ among painkillers.”

Jack chuckled and turned toward the coolers, _Excedrin Excedrin_ in hand. “Packaging.”

Eric caught up at refrigerated doors, sliding in front of him to clutch a 20 ounce Coca-cola to his chest. “I think you mean _perfection,_ ” he hissed.

Jack reached over his head to grab a bottle of green tea and turned toward the cashier. “Placebo effect,” he tossed over his shoulder.

A minute later Eric placed his Coke, a king-size Snickers, and two packages of organic unsalted almonds on the counter beside Jack’s purchases. When Jack pointedly eyed the snacks, Eric sniffed and pushed the almonds in his direction. “To go with your grass juice.”

Jack swallowed down the smile threatening to break his face. “Thanks, honeybun,” he replied easily, just to watch Eric’s reaction.

To his surprise Eric blew him a kiss. “Sure thing, sugar pie.” Then he snatched up his Coke and Snickers and was out of the store in a flash.

Jack looked at the cashier.

The cashier looked at Jack.

He smiled tentatively. “I’m, uh, paying for his.”

The girl grinned, gum snapping when she gave him the total.

He opened the box of Excedrin before he left the store, depositing the trash into a large bin at the entrance. He shook two capsules into his palm and passed them over as soon as he was back in the car.

Eric took them without a word and slugged them back with a long drink of the cola. Then he sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped his head to Jack’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmured.

Jack thought about tucking him under his arm, or patting his leg and encouraging him to lie down, finally settling for reaching over to lightly ruffle his hair. “No problem, squirt.”

“Too bad they’re an inferior pain killer.”

Jack chuckled and tugged on one loose curl. “Go to sleep, Bittle. I’ll wake you when we’re there.”

_/ \\_

“I think this is us,” the driver murmured through the opening.

Jack glanced out the window before nudging Eric awake. There were two airport employees waiting at a nondescript door to escort them through security. While they drove, Jack had texted West and asked for airport assistance, not wanting Eric to be subjected to another run in with photographers. Jack imagined their detour had probably given the paparazzi a slight advantage, so if at all possible, he would like to postpone the inevitable confrontation a little longer. He _would_ deal with it—but it wasn’t weak to want a delay.

Eric rubbed his eyes and stretched, reaching through the opening to pat their driver on the shoulder. “You’re a good egg,” he smiled sincerely.

“No problem, kiddo. And good luck!” She hopped out of the car to grab their bags from the trunk.

Jack discreetly passed her a generous tip. “Thank you.”

“Take care of yourselves,” she replied, hesitating before squeezing his arm.

Jack turned to find Eric already at the door, chattering at the two agents waiting there. When he heard him complement their uniforms with such sincerity that it could only be genuine, Jack shook his head and laughed, before following them into the airport.

They made it through the security checkpoint without incident, only a couple of photogs perceptive enough to gamble that they might avoid the main entrance. Jack kept one hand on Eric at all times—his shoulder, his arm, his lower back—unwilling to give even the hint of an impression that anything was remiss. He still hadn’t heard back from Georgia or the Falconers PR about what, exactly, their preferred angle might be for his sudden marital adventures, but he had thought about it during the drive. He didn’t want to be the “celebrity who got drunkenly married in Vegas” and then divorced 48 hours later. (Even if, technically, that was exactly what had happened.) He wasn’t sure how Eric felt about any of it yet, but a crazy idea had formed with his new “spouse” snuggled into his side.

Jack wanted to stay married.

His stomach dropped to his toes when he allowed the thought to fully form in his head, practicing the words and wondering what Eric— _Bitty_ —might say.

_Bitty._

He really needed to squirm up the courage try that one out aloud.

He watched Eric choose a seat by a bank of windows, his back to the busy corridor connecting gates. He collapsed onto the padded vinyl chair, dropping his head back to look for Jack. “You coming, slowpoke?” His dark eyes were drowsy, expression pinched from the still-evident headache, and Jack wanted to massage his temples until the little _eleven_ between his brows disappeared.

Jack nodded and sat down on his left. _Yeah._ He wanted to stay married.

Maybe not forever—well, definitely not forever if Eric was opposed, of course—but maybe for a while. Maybe until the season was over and the press had moved on to the next scandalous thing. Maybe until Jack wasn’t automatically viewed as a—a— _zoo animal,_ as Eric had so aptly put it.

Maybe until there was a reason _not_ to be married.

Jack couldn’t for the life of him think of a single one right now. Discounting Eric, of course, who might be the biggest reason. But for him, for Jack, he thought he might _like_ being married. Having someone in the family section at the arena who belonged to him. Someone at his apartment, warming the walls with photos that weren’t _art_ , and filling the rooms with teasing laughter. Someone to text from the airport lounge on away games, to say… _I’m boarding, I’ll see you soon._

Someone for Jack.

He glanced at Eric, who had put in a pair of earbuds and was tapping a finger on the armrest in time to the song. As though he could feel Jack looking at him, he popped open one eye and without a word, removed an earbud and shifted closer to tuck it into Jack’s right ear.

The song was bouncy, modern. _Eric._

Jack nudged teasingly at his arm on the armrest, thinking Eric would relent and let him take over the spot. Instead, Eric slipped his hand around the frame of Jack’s elbow and looped their arms together. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a brightly-hued phone raise and his spidey-sense tingled; someone was sneaking a photo. Instead of turning his back to the intrusion (his usual M.O.), he leaned back in the seat, mimicking Eric’s relaxed position, and crossed his feet at the ankles. Inspired, he wrapped his hand loosely around Eric’s and brought it to his chest. He smiled when Eric squeezed his fingers, and then immediately felt guilty; Eric didn’t know he was essentially _posing_ them for a random fan’s photo opportunity.

He tensed when Eric leaned close to his ear and whispered,

“You never told me you were a thespian.”

The words blew against the sensitive skin of Jack’s neck and he shivered, goosebumps raised on his arms.

“Shut up,” he retorted lamely from the corner of his mouth, wondering if that meant Eric was on board with the little charade or if he was admonishing him.

Eric snorted softly, and apparently quite the thespian himself, turned in the chair to wrap himself like a little octopus around Jacks’ left bicep, face tucked into his shoulder, knees curled under him and pressing against Jack’s thigh. Every few minutes he would add something so carelessly nonchalant it felt real—too real for Jack’s libido _—_ and Jack realized what a dangerous game he had initiated. First it was just a random squeeze, fingers wrapping around his upper arm; then a nose, nudging under his jaw.

It was the teeth that had him desperately praying for their boarding call, though, nipping at his earlobe before retreating so quickly Jack was barely able to withhold a whimper of protest, pulse slamming wildly out of control.

When the call finally came Jack inhaled a deep, ragged breath. Eric unfurled from his side and stood to stretch, his borrowed t-shirt too baggy to award Jack even the tiniest glimpse of skin. Eric held out a hand, an innocent expression on his not-so-innocent face.

“You’re a complete shit,” Jack muttered, silently reminding his impressionable dick that it had all been for show.

But he took the outstretched hand, and he didn’t let go, not even when they were on the plane.


	5. Lying Gold Diggers Notwithstanding...

As much as Jack would have preferred a shower, a nap, and a decent meal (not necessarily in that order), a series of texts from Georgia upon landing at Logan meant neither he nor Eric would be showering, napping, or eating in the foreseeable future.

“I’m so tired,” Eric moaned. He stumbled and Jack caught his arm.

“I’m sorry, Eric, I—”

“No, now don’t go getting all chivalrous and apologetic or I might forget myself and cause a scene.” Eric nodded discreetly toward baggage claim, where a bank of photographers were waiting, some already snapping away. “Unless you want me to.” Eric’s eyes twinkled. “Forget myself, I mean.”

“No!” Jack winced. “Sorry. Shit, I mean, I’m not. Chivalrous.” He blinked at Eric pleadingly.

Eric laughed and tucked his hand in Jack’s. “Truce, _Jesus,_ before I forget that I’m not forgetting myself. Like, literally.”

Jack let Eric pull him to a spare corner of carpet near the conveyer belt, following his lead and ignoring the photographers, who amazingly kept their distance. The other passengers were watching them curiously, though, and when he glanced down Eric was frowning.  “What?”

“I’m disturbed. Is it always like this?”

Jack shrugged. “Not always.”

Eric inched closer. “But sometimes?”

“Sometimes.” Jack gave in to temptation and pushed his index finger over the crease between Eric’s brows. “Stop frowning or they’re going to think you don’t _want_ to be married to me.” He was intrigued with the way Eric’s cheeks pinked in response. It gave him the boost of confidence he needed to broach the subject he’d been mulling over since takeoff in Las Vegas. “Eric—”

“Mr. Zimmermann?” The man wore a crisp suit and carried a discreet white card with _Bittle-Zimmermann_ printed on it in thick block letters.

“Yes.” Jack gave Eric’s hand a squeeze before dropping it to shake the man’s hand. “Georgia told me a car would be waiting?”

“Yes, sir. I will escort you out now, if you’ll follow me. If you have your luggage claim tickets, I will give those to my associate who will retrieve your bags.” He turned and walked in the opposite direction of the main doors, leading them away from the line of cameras.

Jack looked at Eric and shrugged. “I think he wants us to follow him.”

Eric was frowning again. “Why do I have to be first? There’s absolutely _nothing_ wrong with Zimmermann-Bittle.”

“Are you crazy?” Jack gave him a little push in the small of his back; the driver was on the move, clearly hoping to outwit the paparazzi. “Bittle-Zimmermann sounds so much better. Cleaner.”

“Psh,” Eric scoffed. “It sounds like a vacuum cleaner.”

“And Zimmermann-Bittle doesn’t?”

The man opened a security door and continued down a hall; at the end Jack could see daylight.

“No! It sounds like a space station! Or a sexy car.”

Jack held the exit door open, shooting Eric a look of amusement. “A sexy car.”

“Vroom vroom,” Eric winked, sauntering into the sunshine.

If Jack had to adjust his jeans before he slid into the back seat, no one was the wiser.

_/ \\_

“Due to the photographic evidence presented by both parties on the night in question, _Sexual Relationship_ disputes will not be a valid reason for the granting of annulment.”

Jack felt Eric stiffen beside him. He wished he was still touching him, but the handholding and easy companionship had ceased as soon as they were ushered into the legal offices in downtown Providence. There, Georgia had been ready with overnight packs filled with toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb, as well as brand new button-up shirts for each of them; blue oxford for Jack, white for Eric.

“I had to guess your size, Mr. Bittle,” she said when she handed it to him.

“Eric.” Eric turned the tissue-wrapped shirt over in his hand a few times, clearly bewildered.

Jack had been about to ask George to give them a few minutes alone, he could practically feel Eric slipping away, but then she had her assistant take Eric one direction, and before leading Jack in another.

She had nearly chewed his ass off by the time he was changed and freshened.

His earlier light-heartedness over their predicament solidly quashed, George’s words rang in his ears. Whatever positivity Jack had managed to cling to regarding their situation, was now being summarily flattened by the pinched-looking attorney seated across from them.

“There are two alternatives, the first being Green Card Coercion—are you a US citizen, Mr. Bittle?”

Eric’s eyes snapped at that, the first sign of life Jack had seen from him in the past half hour. “Yes, Mr. Dadery,” he drawled, accent fully present and accounted for. “Georgia born and raised.”

Dadery crossed through _Green Card Coercion_ on the paperwork in front of him. “Then Financial Gain is your only option.” He slid identical sheaves of paper to both Jack and Eric. “There are flags where you should initial, and a signature page.”

“I’m sorry, _what_ financial gain?” Eric asked, pointedly ignoring the paper in front of him.

“A qualifying annulment claim in the state of Nevada is one party’s misrepresentation of their intent to secure the other party’s wealth or fortune.”

“No!” Jack said forcefully, at the same Eric very quietly stated, “Fuck you.”

George laid her hand on Jack’s arm. “Jack, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s simply the quickest way out of this.”

“It means something to _me,_ ” Eric spit out, shoving back from the table.

“Did you or did you not know Mr. Zimmermann’s identity as a current and distinguished NHL player, Mr. Bittle?” Dadery asked calmly.

Eric’s face was red and he refused to meet Jack’s eyes. “He already knows that I did. I didn’t hide that.”

“Did you tell him before or after the ceremony?”

Eric froze and for one horrifying second Jack thought he was going to bolt.

“Stop.” Jack said, voice quiet but firm. “Georgia, Mr. Dadery, if you will excuse us, Eric and I need a moment alone.”

“Jack—”

“Now.” Jack had never had words with Georgia before, had always considered her a friend. It hurt that she had so quickly jumped to this conclusion, or any conclusion at all, without waiting to talk to Jack, or meet Eric. He waited until they left before he calmly picked up both sets of annulment papers and ripped them in half.

Eric jumped at the violence of the action. His eyes were shining, and Jack knew what it was to want to cry, to need that outlet. There was a dull ache behind his breastbone; Eric felt this way because of him.

“ _Now_ can I apologize?” he quipped softly, ripping the set of papers into fourths.

Eric huffed a watery laugh, rubbing at his face. “I hope you know, you’re going to piss off the boss lady and the lawyer man.”

“Yeah well,” Jack shrugged, neatly piling the ripped squares of papers on top of Dadery’s stack of folders. “I don’t like him, and I’ll deal with her later.” He reached a tentative hand in Eric’s direction, squeezing his shoulder when he didn’t flinch away. “You okay?”

Eric wobbled his head indecisively. “I’ll be fine.”

Jack noticed he was twisting the gaudy, gold ring. “First—I _am_ sorry, and I don’t care whether or not you want to hear it. Second,” he held up a finger when Eric opened his mouth to protest. “Second. What if we don’t get an annulment? At least not right away?”

Eric rubbed at an imaginary spot on the table for a long beat. “Why?”

His voice was so small, Jack wanted to scoop him onto his lap and kiss his entire face, coax forth the easily smiling _Bitty_ of before. “Because I don’t want to.” He held his breath as he watched the words register.

Color simmering to a happier shade of pink, Eric pursed his lips. “This is because I give good head, isn’t it.”

Jack snorted so hard, he nearly choked and Eric had to slap him two good thumps on the back. “Jesus, Bittle.”

Eric propped his chin on one fist, flapping his other hand back and forth. “I mean, _obviously,_ I would need a regular turn on my investment. Something of equivalence, perhaps. Like, say that one time when you put your—”

Jack slapped his palm across Eric’s filthy mouth, ears burning, smiling so hard his cheeks ached. “This is _not_ a sex deal,” he whispered, glancing at the door, mirth bubbling up in his chest, butterflies uncaged.

Eric pried his hand loose, all big, innocent eyes and red lips. “No?”

Jack knew better. _Little shit._ “No,” he said firmly. “This is a business deal. Between friends,” he added before Eric’s face lost its happy glow. “I’m,” he swallowed, pushing the words out even though it was a little humiliating. “I’m lonely. And I always wanted to come out eventually, so this just…” He shrugged helplessly.

“Fast forwarded your life a little bit?”

“Something like that,” Jack laughed. “I just think—we’re already halfway there. We obviously get along. There’s the—”

“Sex,” Eric supplied helpfully.

Jack nearly choked again. “The _fun_ ,” he said with a pointed glare.

“Sex _is_ fun.”

“So are you,” Jack said without thinking, and then turned pinker than Eric’s bottom lip. Which he really wanted to kiss right now. _Fuck._

“Yeah?” Eric was practically beaming, a far cry from how he had looked just a few minutes earlier.

“Yeah. So what do you say? Want to stay married to me for a while longer?” As he waited for Eric’s answer, Jack felt the seconds slowly tick by on a cellular level.  

Eric tugged at his chin thoughtfully. “How much longer?” He finally asked.

Jack exhaled. _For the rest of my life._  “I don’t know, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” he lied.

“Ha!” Eric poked him in the chest with his index finger. “You didn’t think I’d say yes.”

“Yes I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“ _Yes,_ I did. I’m a stud.”

“You keep telling yourself that, hockey man.” Eric rolled his eyes.

Jack grinned and then realized Eric still hadn’t exactly said yes. _Jesus,_ he was literally going to be the death of him _._ “So?”

Eric studied the table again. “I don’t have to quit the team, or school, or—”

“Eric, _no,_ ” Jack said emphatically, giving in to his need for _touch_ and squeezing his arm. “Our lives will be just like they were, just…we’ll be in them together?” He trailed off, realizing how lame that sounded.

“You’re kinda terrible at this,” Eric supplied with a grin.

“Shut up.”

“So,” Eric rubbed at that imaginary spot on the lacquered wood again. “Like roommates? Except in public we pretend?”

 _Roommates, yes._ It was a start, at least. “Yeah, like roommates.”

“Then…yeah, okay.” Eric smiled tentatively. “I think I can do that. I mean,” he nodded in the direction of the closed door. “It’s better than signing a legal document avowing to the entire state of Nevada that I’m a lying gold digger.”

“Bonus,” Jack nodded sagely. He held out a hand, although what he really wanted to do was a little more X-rated. _Baby steps._

Eric shook, solemnly, before shifting his eyes to his lap and then back to meet Jack’s again. “Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I was joking, before, about the sex.”

Jack’s breath seized in his chest. “Eric, I know, I—”

“Because I think it would be best if we were just friends.”

Jack froze, the rest of Eric’s statement getting lost in the ringing in his ears. “Of course,” he heard himself agreeing. “Me too.” _Fuck fuck fuck._

“Good.” Eric exhaled, seemingly relieved, and Jack was hit with a wave of guilt so massive that if he had been standing, it might have brought him to his knees.

_Friends._

“Friends,” he echoed, realizing somewhat belatedly that he was still holding Eric’s hand.

Eric squeezed his fingers with a smile. “Friends.”


	6. Just Like Summer Camp

**_Kent:_ ** _WTF Zimms, I leave you alone in a bar for five minutes and you get MARRIED?_

 **_Jack_ ** _: So you just woke up._

 **_Kent:_ ** _NO!_

 **_Kent:_ ** _Maybe.._

Jack smiled at his phone. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have been able to joke with Kent about this—or about anything at all—without being buried under an avalanche of anxiety and a week of regret. Kenny was his first love, before either of them had been old enough to understand what that meant, and he was still Jack’s oldest friend. They’d come a long way in the past few years, although sometimes he wondered if there might always be an undercurrent of _what if_ running between them.  

He scrolled through a few other messages, ignoring the bawdier ones from his Falc’s teammates and frowning over the one from his mom— _I expect a phone call once you’re home!_

“God I wish my phone was charged,” Eric muttered mournfully, watching him.

“Do you want to use mine?” Jack passed the phone over to Eric. They were finally on their way to Jack’s apartment, having finished with the attorney pretty quickly once Jack told him they weren’t interested in an annulment. What followed had been a lot of legalese that had conveyed a lengthy list of Dadery’s objections, most of which Jack had tuned out (George would fill him in later, anyway). They had been allowed to leave once they agreed to come back in the next few days to sign a contract to “more properly define the longevity of the relationship”. That description prompted Eric to lean close and whisper, _Do you think that’s how he proposed?,_ glancing pointedly at the man’s wedding ring, causing Jack to snort a lungful of water up his nose. (The resulting stink eye they got from George was almost worth the happy flip of Jack’s heart).

Maybe it was the hunger, or the exhaustion—or both—but Jack was more convinced than ever that this was the right thing. He could feel it, a warm, peaceful, pocket of happiness right in the center of his chest. And while he hadn’t been naïve enough to assume the attorney was going to let them off without some kind of paperwork to protect Jack from a public relations or estate fiasco (that _was_ what Jack was paying him for, after all), he did hold out some hope George could convince him to let it keep until summer.

George, predictably, thought Jack had lost his “fool mind”, and told him so in a harsh whisper against his ear when he hugged her goodbye. He would call her later, or go in early tomorrow, and smooth things over. He didn’t blame her for the doubt, he just didn’t share it. But to get through this he really needed her on his side—his _and_ Eric’s.

Eric was typing in a number when he stopped with a small, “ _Oh._ ” He held the phone out to Jack. “Um. Message.”

Jack glanced at the screen, groaning inwardly.

 **_Kent:_ ** _Seriously tho. I thought you were staying a few days? Should I be jealous?_

Before he could reply, there was another.

 **_Kent:_ ** _He’s cute. Nice ass._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Thanks, I think. Talk later._

When he tried to hand the phone back, Eric shook his head, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the passing scenery. Jack wondered if he should try to explain, acutely aware of the myriad challenges associated with the perplexing topic of _Kent Parson_. It seemed like a conversation better suited to later, after they had gotten past things like _What time do you eat dinner? a_ nd _What’s your favorite TV show?_ Not that Jack watched a lot of TV. He watched SportsCenter.

“So,” Eric cleared his throat. “Kent as in…Parson?”

“Uh, yeah.” Jack grimaced. So much for stalling. “We were in the junior leagues together.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was a mostly tranquil place to start.

“You don’t have to explain.” Eric continued to stare out of the window.

Jack had a sudden, queasy thought. “Do you have a, um, someone? At Samwell?” He swallowed again. “Or at home?” He trailed off.

Eric gave Jack a bland look. “If I did we wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh! Right,” Jack winced. “Me either.” Eric didn’t reply, but Jack didn’t miss the way he glanced at the phone again. “I’m not with Kenny. Uh, Kent. Or, um. Anyone.”

Eric’s eyes were unreadable, and Jack wished they could skip ahead of all the _firsts_ and get to the place where he knew what it meant when Eric looked at him that way. Was it anger or distrust or simple processing?

Eric lifted one shoulder in a miniscule shrug. “If you were, _are_ , then.” He sighed, a tired sound. “That’s okay. Okay? I mean, obviously it complicates this,” he waved one hand between the two of them. “But whatever. We’ll manage.”

“Eric.” Jack exhaled, thinking—not for the first time—that Kent Parson had a habit of fucking up his life in ways he never saw coming. “I’m _not_ with Kent. Or anyone else. The only complication in my life right now is getting my hands on some food before my stomach eats through the lining.”

Eric’s answering smile was contemplative, and he remained silent until the car pulled to a stop in front of Jack’s apartment building. “I’m glad,” he offered then, the words a quiet rush before he grabbed the door handle and made his escape, waiting on the sidewalk in front of the slick highrise while Jack retrieved their bags.

Apartment living wasn’t Jack’s taste (he would much prefer to live in a house, in a quiet neighborhood, where he could maybe have a dog), but it was close to the rink and several of his teammates lived in the building. Jack had always considered it the least lonely housing option.

He slung the shoulder strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder and extended the handle of Eric’s wheeled suitcase. “You ready, squirt?”

Eric made a face that was probably supposed to be ferocious but wound up pretty damn adorable instead. “One sizist nickname is enough, thank you very much.”

“Sizist?” Jack snorted, leading the way into the lobby of the building.

“You know exactly what I mean, mister,” Eric managed to mutter out of the corner of his mouth before they were approached by the doorman.

“Mr. Zimmermann, good evening sir.”

“Tiny.” Jack shook his hand and then winked at Eric, who flushed a pretty rose and threw Jack an incredulous look. “This is, uh, my husband. Eric.” And suddenly Jack was the one blushing—he hadn’t realized he was going to say it until it was out—but the doorman took it stride.

“Eric. Very nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Eric said, shaking Tiny’s hand and eyeballing the six foot four doorman skeptically.  “Please tell me that’s your given name and that Mr. Zimmermann here didn’t grace you with that moniker.” He cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered, “He thinks he’s hilarious.”

Tiny threw back his head and laughed. “Oh my, no. Once upon a time, I was a football player.” He gave an elegant little bow. “Sport never suited me, however, and after a series of misadventures, I found myself here.”

“Where we’re lucky to have you,” Jack added with a smile.

“Thank you,” Tiny nodded. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to adjust security cameras.” He turned to walk away before glancing back. “It would seem one of our residents has recently acquired quite the hot little…timeslot on the evening news.” He laid one finger on the side of his nose and winked.

Jack’s mouth fell open and Eric snorted. “You don’t say!”

Jack frowned down at him. “So _he_ can call you little but I can’t?”

“ _He_ called me hot, so yes.” He tugged at Jack’s arm. “Unless you live in the lobby, good sir, I would really _love_ to see my new digs.”

“Okay but only because I’m hungry,” Jack grumbled, waving in Tiny’s direction and hitting the button for the elevator. After they were inside, he glanced down to find Eric still smiling. “What are you smiling at?”

Eric was fairly twinkling. “An exceptionally attractive former football player just said I was hot. That gets a smile.”

Jack frowned. “I said you were hot. Like twelve times last night.”

“Yeah, but we’re married.” Eric waved his hand over his head. “The bloom is off the rose.”

The elevator _pinged_ on Jack’s floor and Eric stepped out, awfully confident for someone who had no idea where he was going. Jack hid a smile and led him to his door. “The rose is not even a day old.” He dug into his pocket for his keys, leaning Eric’s suitcase against the wall.

“It was a discount rose,” Eric said offhandedly, glancing down the hall curiously.

Jack pushed the door open and before Eric could step inside, he bent down and grabbed the cheeky little shit around the waist, tossing him over his shoulder fireman style and entering the apartment.

“What the hell!” Eric laughed, smacking Jack half heartedly on the back.

Jack dumped him unceremoniously on the couch with a grin. “It’s tradition for the groom to carry the bride across the threshold.”

Eric sat up on his elbows. “Why do _I_ have to be the bride? First the name thing and now this. I’m feeling very marginalized here.”

“I mean,” Jack shrugged and dropped his duffle, holding his hands out wide. “If you think _you_ can carry _me_ across the threshold… _Bitty.”_ He wondered if Eric could hear the thunderous beat of his heart. It had been a long, long time since he had felt playful—with anyone.

Eric rolled his eyes and jumped off the couch. He shadow boxed around him, making as though to throw a punch, then _hmphing_ in satisfaction when Jack flinched and covered his abdomen. “If you weren’t so cute, I really would slug you for doubting my virility.” He retrieved his bag where Jack left it by the door, but froze when he saw the kitchen. “Holy cow.”

Jack moved to stand beside him, trying to see it through Eric’s eyes. He had chosen this unit for it’s open floor plan, and the wall of windows facing downtown Providence; it was quite the view. There was a sweet little balcony where Jack liked to sit sometimes, at night when the streets were quiet. The kitchen was separated from the living and dining areas by a long bar, and featured sleek, dark cabinetry and lots of gleaming stainless steel. Jack didn’t much care one way or another, as long as the microwave and dishwasher were functional, but apparently it was working for Eric. He nudged him with his elbow. “Is it as attractive as me?”

“More,” Eric breathed before walking straight to the double oven and running a hand lovingly over the handle; Jack had never once imagined a scenario where he was jealous of a kitchen appliance but here he was.

As enthralling as Jack’s kitchen apparently was, exhaustion was stronger, because in the next moment, Eric was yawning wide and long.

“Okay then, I think we’d better figure out the whole sleeping arrangement thing and then I have some protein shakes we can—”

“You did _not_ just offer to feed me protein shakes for dinner.” Eric shuddered.

Jack blinked. “It’s been a long day,” he said defensively, because _yes. He did._

Eric disappeared behind the refrigerator door and Jack could hear him rustling through the cooler drawers. He popped back out with an assortment of lunchmeat, cheese, and vegetables. “If you have bread I can do sandwiches. Or,” he ducked back in the fridge. “You have eggs. Omelet?”

Jack stared. “You cook?”

Eric pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. When he looked back at Jack, his voice was serene. “Neither omelets _nor_ sandwich preparations are technically a skill level I would classify as _cooking,_ but to answer your question. Yes. I can cook.” He muttered again, slamming through drawers until he found the silverware. He wielded a butter knife in Jack’s direction. “At the moment I’m too wrung out to prove it to you, but first thing tomorrow your ass is mine, Zimmermann.”

Jack was glad Eric turned his back to him then, to search for the bread, because he was one thousand percent sure his face relayed _just how much_ Eric Bittle already owned his ass _._

It was over the sandwiches ( _and God fucking yes, could Eric make a sandwich!_ ) that the subject Jack had been avoiding inevitably came up.

“So. You said something about sleeping arrangements?” Eric crunched down half a baby carrot. “Do you only have one bedroom?”

“No, there’s a guest room.” Jack rubbed his palms on his jeans under the table. “I have a cleaning lady,” he blurted.

Eric shook his head with a laugh. “I assumed.”

“What? Why?” Jack’s face was the picture of bewilderment which only made Eric laugh harder.

“Oh come _on._ You have a, what?” Eric scrunched his nose. “Do I even want to know what your contract looks like?”

“I mean, you should. It’s half yours,” Jack quipped, reaching over to steal a pickle from Eric’s plate.

“Then I demand an oven mitt, Jesus.” Eric waved a tea towel over their heads.

“Let’s just say it’s enough to keep you in oven mitts for the rest of your natural life.”

“Okay, so you have a,” Eric grinned. “Thousand oven mitt contract. I assumed you weren’t scrubbing your own toilet. Not with those hands.” He looked pointedly at Jack’s well-groomed nails.

“What?” Jack yanked his hands from the table.

“Visit the spa while you were in Vegas, hmmm hockey man?” Eric chewed through the rest of his carrot.

Jack raised one hand to peer at his carefully trimmed and buffed nails. He shrugged. “Maybe.” He pointed one finger across the table. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I was—”

“Whoa oh oh! Would you look at the time!”

Jack chuckled at his exaggerated yawn. He stood to clear the table, ignoring Eric’s protests. “No, you _cooked_ ,” he winked. “I clean up.” He snatched the tea towel from the table and slung it over his shoulder. “There’s a shower across from the guest room. If you need a tub, that’s in the master suite at the end of the hall.”

Eric leaned on the counter. “Shower is fine. What were you going to tell me about your cleaning lady?”

Jack froze; _shit_ he had been having so much fun chirping Eric he had forgotten. “Oh, um. She comes tomorrow. She comes three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”

Eric raised both brows, waiting patiently.

“And,” Jack dried his hands on the towel, then twisted it taut like a rope. “I’ve been thinking about how it would look, to her, if, uh…” He swallowed helplessly. “If we don’t sleep in the same room? Is that weird?”

“Oh.” Eric fiddled with the handle of his suitcase, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “I guess I didn’t think of that either. Maybe you snore?” He asked, mouth turned up just enough that Jack knew he was teasing him again.

“I do not.” He scowled, his best faceoff glare, but it was entirely wasted effort when Eric giggled.

“Okay, so tub it is,” he announced gaily. He must have taken pity on Jack’s beet red face, because he added, “Jack. We’ll figure it out. Either I’ll make the bed early and she’ll never know, or we bunk together a few nights a week. It’ll be just like summer camp.” He didn’t wait for Jack to answer before trotting off down the hall, pulling the wheeled suitcase behind him.

He didn’t stop at the guest bedroom.

“Summer camp,” Jack said to the empty kitchen. He inhaled through his nose and held it for a count of three before slowly releasing it. “Okay.”

Then he finished the dishes and wiped down the counters and the table and didn’t think about a wet, naked Eric fifty feet away at all.


	7. Bro Friendly Snuggling

Jack was a chickenshit.

After taking his own sweet time cleaning the kitchen, he sorted and tossed the dirty things from his duffle into the washer (although, he was 99% sure he would forget to put them in the dryer come morning, meaning either he or Mrs. Snaps would have to rewash them). Then he puttered around the living room, dusting the TV and straightening the magazines his mother had insisted made the coffee table “more inviting”.

_How long would Eric take to shower/bathe/dress/get into bed? Preferably without traumatizing Jack with his taut little ass?_

“I can do this,” he finally muttered, dropping the Sports Illustrated.  He ventured into the bedroom, breath held; Eric was under the covers on the big, king bed—fast asleep. Jack sighed in relief.

_Not naked, thank you Jesus._

In the master bath, he paused at the double sink; Eric had placed his toothbrush in the holder next to Jack’s. It stirred something in his belly, teasing at the simmer of frustration that had plagued him all day. In the corner, the large garden tub was dry, but the glass-walled shower on the opposite wall was still damp from residual steam. He would probably regret the afterimages that would surely follow, but he stripped quickly and stepped inside.

He kept it ridiculously perfunctory, only briefly considering taking care of the heaviness between his legs, ultimately deciding he was too keyed up, too aware of the sleeping occupant in the next room to do so. Obviously that would have to change, and fast; his balls would fall off if he had to live in this kind of proximity to Eric for very long without some sort of release.

Once he had dried and pulled on clean briefs, he swore under his breath; he hadn’t thought to bring anything else in with him to wear to bed. He cracked open the bathroom door and peeked at the bed; Eric didn’t appear to have moved a muscle. He crossed quickly to the dresser and retrieved a pair of shorts. Then he stood there, drawer open, and contemplated actually wearing them to bed. It was silly, and Eric might get the wrong idea, but he was exhausted and he knew if he wore the shorts—something out of his ordinary routine, not uncomfortable but not what he was used to, or wanted—he would probably never get to sleep. He tucked the shorts back into the drawer and steeled himself; briefs it was.

He was nearly home free, carefully peeling back the blankets and sliding in, when his weight shifted the mattress and Eric startled awake.

He rubbed his eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jack whispered, thankful the bed was large enough that they would each have plenty of room. No need for them to touch at all. He wasn’t thrasher when he slept anyway, so it would just be like sleeping alone. He could—

Eric plowed right over Jack’s imaginary mattress midline and scooted next to him with a shiver. “S’cold.” He tucked his face into Jack’s bicep. “Mmm, but you’re all warm.”

“Hot water,” Jack said helplessly. “Do you need me to turn up the thermostat?”

“Nghh,” Eric mumbled against his skin. “This is perfect. You’re like a furnace.” He shifted his legs, brushing against Jack’s bare thigh and then blinking up at him accusingly. “I wore clothes to bed to protect your delicate sensibilities.”

Jack snorted. “My what?”

“Oh don’t give me that innocent crap,” Eric grumbled, flipping over so his back was to him. He reached behind him for Jack’s arm when he didn’t immediately follow. “Well come on, then. Get over here before the cold makes you a widower.”

 Jack rolled tentatively onto his side, trying to keep a respectful distance—he was in his underwear for Christ’s sake! He nearly strangled on his own spit when Eric suddenly shifted backward, bumping up against his chest. His head just fit, tucked under Jack’s chin.  

“Would your rather we swapped places?”

“Huh?” Jack’s brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Eric was warm and pliant and he smelled like Jack’s favorite shampoo, and even in the dim light he could make out the _Providence Falconers_ t-shirt he was wearing—the little shit had been in his dresser. “Nice shirt.”

“Thanks,” Eric grinned. “But don’t change the subject. There’s nothing to be ashamed of for wanting to be the little spoon, Mr. Zimmermann. Personally, I am not at all opposed to it, even though it’s—for obvious reasons—expected. Although Ransom actually prefers it when I—”

“I do _not_ want to hear about who you’ve spooned,” Jack interrupted crossly, _thisclose_ to tossing him to the floor.

“Fine, fine.” Eric continued to inch backward, until his butt was fitted right into the cradle of Jack’s hips.

Jack’s quick inhale was embarrassingly audible. “What are you doing.”

“I’m getting comfortable, hockey man. You know, you really need a nickname.”

“No, I really don’t.” Jack didn’t know what to do with his free arm, his hand hovering over Eric’s waist for a long beat, until he gave in to temptation and carefully rested it there. He could feel Eric breathing under his palm and it was so intimate it was dizzying. Experimentally, he slid his thumb under the hem of the shirt, a sudden craving for the warm skin underneath making him bold.

Eric caught him by the wrist. “Hey, no touching the goods before the vows. I’m pure.”

“We’re post vows. And if memory serves…”

Eric wiggled his butt and Jack’s eyes crossed.

“Well then, by all means,” Eric bantered. “The buffet is open.” He manhandled Jack’s arm around his chest.

“Now what are you doing?” Jack was not going to survive. He was never going to sleep again and he was most definitely going to die.

“I’m doing this new fangled thing where you move your body in tandem with another body. Usually in a bed. You might have heard of it, it’s called—”

“I know what sex is, Bittle.”

“Sex? Who was talking about sex?” He squeezed Jack’s wrist before pushing it back down to his waist. “I was referring to the time-honored tradition of the bro-friendly snuggle. We’re just two friends, snuggling. Fruggling.”

Jack let his thumb slip under the t-shirt again, hand sliding forward to rest just above his navel. There was an intriguing twitch of the musculature there, and Jack longed to see it in daylight. He wanted to see _all_ of Eric in the daylight. “Fruggling is not a word,” he murmured absently. He would _not_ nuzzle the back of Eric’s head. _Would. Not._

He nuzzled.

“Says you.” Eric sighed and wiggled again.

“Eric I swear to God if you don’t lie still.” Jack couldn’t even see his face anymore, but somehow he _knew_ he was smiling.

“You’re not that scary, Jack Zimmermann.”

 _You are,_ Jack thought, squeezing his eyes shut and praying for strength. “Go to sleep, Bittle.”

“Night, Zimba.”

Jack hid his smile in Eric’s hair and despite his worst fears, the comforting warmth of being wrapped around another body quickly lulled him to sleep.

_/ \\_

The problem, Jack thought, with living by a strict routine, is that your body continued to do so even when your mind would rather not.

It was six a.m. and he should be getting dressed for his run. But his bed was extra warm, there was a stray knee tucked between both of his own, and a tuft of dark blonde hair was pleasantly tickling his cheek.

Jack had never been to summer camp, but he suspected Bittle was full of shit and _this_ was nothing like that time-honored childhood tradition.

With a quiet sigh, he gently untangled himself and slipped out of bed. He padded over to his dresser; it would be cold, so he chose for warmth.

“Nice ass,” filtered across the room from the pile of bedding.

Jack froze and then moved a long-sleeve compression shirt in front of his crotch; the rest of his body may run on routine, but his dick had awoken next to Eric. “So I’ve heard.”

Eric snorted, the sound still muffled. “Rich, handsome, _and_ modest. What a catch.”

When he passed the foot of the bed, Jack grabbed the blankets and yanked them to the floor. Eric’s squeal was inhuman. “You’re the one that put a ring on it.”

He was grinning as he closed the bathroom door on Eric’s sputtering.

Bladder, hair, face, and teeth—he had just finished rinsing out his toothbrush when the door swung open and a freckled, golden icicle wrapped around him from behind, burying its hands under the hem of his shirt. “Jesus Christ!” He tried to squirm away, but Eric held him fast, face planted in the center of his back. “You’re freezing.”

 “That’s because it’s like the arctic tundra in there! I mean, I get it, you love the ice but this is fucking ridiculous.”

Jack frowned and placed one hand over the lumps of Eric’s arms lapped around his waistline. “Let me turn up the heat.”

Even through the trembling, Jack could feel Eric wiggle his hips. “Are you propositioning me, Mr. Zimmermann? Because I gotta say, blue balls are _real._ ”

Jack chuckled and disentangled himself, the tightness in his chest part exhilaration, part blind fear. “No, I’m actually going to adjust the thermostat.” He left the bathroom without meeting Eric’s eyes, feeling strangely self-conscious. He was glad Eric had done what he couldn’t, crashed right through any awkward first mornings—but Jack also didn’t downshift that fast. He needed some time to process. He needed to think, about what this was, what he wanted, what to do next. The past 48 hours were a blur—a confusing, adorable, insanely hot Southern blur.

He needed to run.

He bumped the thermostat up a few degrees and grabbed his running shoes, gloves, and a beanie from the closet. “I’ll be back in an hour!”

There was a muffled agreement through the bathroom door, but he didn’t wait for more, tucking earbuds in his ears and drowning out everything but the noise in his own head.

And the running would take care of that.

_/ \\_

Jack took two steps inside his door and froze; the smell emanating from his kitchen was mouth-watering.

“Oh, you’re just in time.” Eric held up a plate. “Egg white omelet with veggies and a teeny bit of cheese. Breakfast of hockey champions everywhere!”

“You cooked.”

Eric nodded solemnly. “Yes, Jack. I cooked.” Then he grinned and flagrantly sashayed over to the dining table, which was prettily set with placemats and napkins Jack didn’t even know he had. “If I remember correctly, there was some ass owning to be had.”

Jack’s mouth worked. _Too much—too much!_ “I’ll, uh, just jump in the shower first.”

Eric frowned, hands on hips. “Hurry up or you deserve cold eggs!”

After a really ( _really)_ fast shower and redress, Jack found himself at the dining table, staring down at a bright-eyed and smiling Eric flipping aimlessly through his phone. The sun had discovered an opening in Jack’s curtains and lanced across the room just behind Eric, backlighting him with a soft glow.

“No phones at the table,” Jack said gruffly, taking his seat.

“Yes, dad.”

They stared at each other for a beat, then grimaced.

“Well we can cross that one off the list,” Eric cracked.

“Please.” Jack cut into the omelet; it was perfectly cooked—fluffy in the way he knew would melt in his mouth. He noticed Eric watching him, waiting for his reaction, so he made a show of the first bite—wanting to chirp the little shit for no other reason than being so goddamn perfect. Unfortunately (or fortunately, in the case of Jack’s stomach), it was so amazing he actually groaned. “Oh my _God._ ”

Eric’s smile was dazzlingly bright. He licked one finger and made a tick mark above his head. “One for me.”

Jack didn’t even argue; there was an omelet to eat.

The easy companionability from the previous day returned, enabling Jack to enjoy his breakfast and lose the residual nervous energy that his run couldn’t abate. When he took a sip from his mug, his face must have shown his surprise because Eric broke the silence.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I—wasn’t expecting coffee.” Jack took another sip, schooling his face into a neutral expression.

“What else did you expect to find in a coffee mug?”

Jack hid his smile at Eric’s disgruntled tone. _Well, well well._ It seemed someone else at this table harbored a perfectionist streak. “Um, tea?”

Eric’s scowl deepened. “That’s un-American.”

“Which makes sense considering I’m Canadian,” Jack offered dryly.

Eric brightened at that. “Oh right. Wait, does that mean I’m half Canadian now too?”

Jack chuckled. “I don’t think that’s how it works.” He finished his omelet and sat back, thinking about what the day held for them. He had practice later, but first up was a meeting with George (who had encouraged him to bring Eric along so they could meet with PR together). Then his afternoon was free, and he wondered if Eric would want to go back to Samwell. The thought brought a strangely unpleasant twist to his gut.

Eric pushed his plate aside and propped his chin on one hand. “Justin Trudeau is so hot,” he said dreamily. “Can I meet him?”

Clearly Eric’s thoughts were not as convoluted as Jack’s. “Assuming you are at an event where the prime minister is present and attending guests, yes.”

“What, you don’t you know him?”

Jack stared. “You do know how big Canada is, right?”

“Oh please,” Eric waved one hand dismissively. “You’re like a national hero. I’ll bet you’ve met him loads of times.” His eyes narrowed at the faint rise of color in Jack’s cheeks. “You have! You’re hoarding Justin Trudeau!”

“I am not _hoarding_ the Prime Minister of Canada!” Until that moment, Jack had never raised his voice in front of Eric. He was both incensed, aroused, and obliquely amused. _God_ _he wanted to kiss him._

Eric toyed with the handle of his coffee mug as a long, silent moment passed. He took a delicate sip and then looked Jack right in the eye. “Are too.”

Jack scrubbed his hands across his face. “I give up.”

Eric licked a finger and made another notch above his head.

“I hate you,” Jack chuckled, downing the rest of his coffee and standing.

“Well then I say that puts us right on track for most marital relations.”

Jack cleared the table swiftly, dancing away from Eric’s grabby hands. “Go get your stuff, squirt. You can go to the rink with me. Might as well get it over with.”

“Locker room too?”

“Uh,” Jack shrugged, confused. “Sure.”

Eric’s face went all dreamy and distracted again. “Mmm, half-naked hockey boys.”

Jack rolled his eyes, then flicked the tea towel at his leg. “Whatever floats your boat. Now scoot.” He put the dishes in the sink, turning on the hot water to rinse them. He jumped when Eric popped around the corner.

“But you still owe me Justin Trudeau.”

“Bitty— _go._ ”

It occurred to Jack that the sound of Eric’s laughter might be the thing that could carry him through every bad day he would ever have. He shook his head and smiled.


	8. Douchebag is Not a Term of Endearment

Eric was gone for such a long stretch that Jack ran out of things to clean. Going to investigate, he found him standing in the middle of the bedroom holding the Providence tee in one hand and the white button down George had given him in the other.

Jack leaned against the door jamb. “Everything okay?”

Eric startled. “Oh, sorry. I don’t know what to wear, and,” he kicked at the suitcase at his feet. “It’s not like I packed to meet the in-laws.”

Jack shrugged. Eric could go shirtless for all he cared; he looked amazing. The tight, dark jeans from their first night were making a reappearance and that meant all was right in Jack’s world. “Either is fine.” When Eric’s troubled expression didn’t clear, he straightened with a frown. “You don’t—you don’t have to do this, Eric. I can talk to George alone, and then I have practice, but—”

“Bitty.” The word was soft, and still directed at the shirts in Eric’s hands.

“Bitty,” Jack conceded slowly. He wasn’t sure of what was happening, but he had learned a lot about patience once upon a time in rehab, and a lot about what it meant to take control of the things you could.

Eric glanced up with a watery smile. “Strangers call me Eric.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Jack shifted in the doorway, wanting to pull him into his arms, almost certain he didn’t have the right to. “You should have said something.”

Eric shrugged. “I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

Jack took a tentative step into the room, cautious, afraid Eric might flee at any moment. “Now I’m a little confused.” Another step, then another.

“I don’t—” Eric grimaced. “I don’t _want_ to like you. You know?” His face, when he looked at Jack, was pleading.

Jack froze, heart sinking. “No.”

“Oh!” Eric held out one hand, the one with the Providence shirt balled tight in his fist. “I do, I _do_ like you, Jack. _Shit_.” He used the shirt to scrub at his face. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”

“Bitty.” Jack was close enough now he could gather him in his arms, and he ached to do so, but he didn’t, because something had shifted between the teasing breakfast and this moment. Something that felt important, fragile, and he didn’t want to fuck it up in a permanent way. With each passing hour, he wanted Eric more. It was a dance he didn’t know the steps to, but Eric had led him so well thus far that he had lost the fear of following. As Eric, as Bitty, as who the fuck ever—he made Jack’s dull, perfectly ordered life something special and sweet, and Jack didn’t want it to stop.

“Do you want me there?” Eric looked at him then, eyes serious.

“Yes.” There was a lot more than simple acquiescence there, for Jack, but he knew Eric needed the reassurance more than to hear his own selfish longings. “I do. And,” Jack reached forward to grab his chin when he started to lower his eyes. “I like you too. But I mean it. You don’t have to do this. Any of it.”

Eric fell into him, burying his face in his chest. “Thanks, Jack,” he mumbled. His hands were fisted at Jack’s hips, still clinging to the stupid shirts.

Jack wrapped his arms around him, metaphorically flipping the bird to common sense. If he was losing this, he was going down with one more memory. He rubbed his chin across the top of Eric’s head, inhaling deep. “So. I’ll be back sometime this afternoon, and I’ll fill you in on the details. Then we can get you back to school and—”

Eric squirmed out of his hold. “What? No! I’m coming with you.”

Jack blinked, uncertain. “Okay.”

“Jack, _God._ ” Eric shoved the t-shirt under his armpit and cupped his free hand around Jack’s jaw. “I’m staying. I didn’t mean—I’m not out. I’m in. I’m _freaking_ out, but I’m _all_ in.” When Jack didn’t say anything he groaned. “Please don’t look at me that way.” He tipped forward, coming up on his toes.

Jack’s heart fluttered wildly at the feather soft touch of his lips on his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” Eric whispered, before stepping back and blowing out a long breath. He held up both shirts. “So?”

Jack needed a nap. He needed a long, hot shower, a blow job, a stiff drink, and a nap. His cheek still tingled. “The button down.” His voice was gravelly, rough, and he cleared his throat. “The other one makes you look like an orphan.”

“Pfft,” Eric scoffed, incongruously turning his back to Jack to put on the shirt. “Not my fault I married the jolly green giant.” When he turned back around, his lips were red where he had been worrying them with his teeth.

 _Maybe just the blow job,_ Jack mused, thoughts careening wildly around his head. “You’re sure?” He asked once more, leading them out of the bedroom. Eric surprised him by grabbing his hand.

“As long as you stick close, yes.”

Jack squeezed his fingers. “I’ll be right here.”

_/ \\_

Public relations must be such a shitty job, Jack thought, contemplating the very precise flow chart creatively titled _Bittle-Zimmermann Not!Hockey Game Plan_. The PR team had been busy; they had been outlining the various news outlets that had requested interviews for the better part of twenty minutes. Jack had long since tuned them out, mind wandering over his and Eric’s morning.

Citizens Center, home of the Providence Falconers, had been quiet when they first arrived, players yet to trickle in after their long weekend. The peacefulness of the empty rink must have been enough to ease Eric’s nerves, although he had clung to Jack’s hand throughout the mini “tour” he had given him.

“Want to get out there? Slap the puck around?” Jack teased. He inhaled the sharp, cold bite of the ice. _It smelled like home._

“You sure you can handle all of this?” Eric struck a pose that looked more like a pinup than a hockey player.

 _Yes._ Jack thought, but before he could answer, George had spotted them and was calling his name. Jack laced his fingers with Eric’s as they climbed the steps to the wing of offices behind the arena; they had discussed their _plan of attack_ (as Eric called it) in the truck on the way over. Currently, the only people who knew Jack and Eric’s wedding had been a drunken impulse were George, Dadery, and the attorney in Vegas, and it seemed prudent to keep it that way. Everyone else would get the official story—they had been secretly dating for months and decided to elope. For Jack, it wouldn’t be as far out of left field as one might imagine; he was notoriously private and rarely appeared in public anyway. It was entirely believable that he had had a secret boyfriend for an indeterminate amount of time.

Eric would be a more difficult sell, since he lived in close proximity to his teammates in a frat house at Samwell and they were a tightknit group, but he had assured Jack it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch.

“Jack, if you knew how many times those bozos tried to set me up and I refused because I had to ‘study’! They already thought I had someone on the side.”

Jack stared hard at the stoplight. “Did you?”

“Nah, I just knew better than to trust Ransom and Holster to find me a date!” Eric grimaced.

“Okay, so.” Jack gripped the steering wheel. He was starting to sweat, and he didn’t think it was the temperature in the truck. “PDA?” He coughed. “Are we going to be…”

“Demonstrative?” Eric grinned.

“Well, not if you’re going to chirp me,” Jack threw him a black look.

“But baby, it’s so easy,” Eric crooned, laughing when Jack’s scowl deepened. “Okay. What would feel the most natural to you? Hand-holding? Arms around shoulders? Obviously that’s not an option for _me,_ but.”

“Hands.” Jack swallowed. _Everything._ “Maybe a kiss goodbye? No tongue,” he added with another pointed look across the seat.

Eric held up three fingers in pledge. “I would _never._ ” He dropped his arm, tapping out a tune on his knee. “Okay, so we hold hands and we’re nonchalant about the smoochies.” His smile was wide and dazzling. “I like us!”

Jack snorted. “Well that’s a relief.”

“Now, about nicknames.”

“Eric,” Jack warned.

“Like terms of endearment, you douchebag.”

Jack chuckled as he pulled into his regular parking space. “Can’t say as that’s ever been one I’ve used, but if that’s what gets you off.”

“Fined!” Eric’s eyes narrowed. “No getting off, remember?”

“Says you.” Jack climbed out of the driver’s seat, waiting for Eric to exit to lock the doors.

Eric’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.

“Oh, sweetheart, you look so lovely when you make fish face.” Jack grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the truck.

“Fuck you,” Eric muttered. He followed Jack into the building and down an empty hall. “And I thought we weren’t doing the sex thing,” he whispered.

Jack stopped and Eric ran into him with a grunt. “We’re not.” He looked down, but Eric’s eyes were shadowed and unreadable in the strange blue cast of the fluorescent fixtures. “Unless you changed your mind.”

“Did you?”

“I asked you first.” Jack felt lightheaded.

Eric’s hand tightened around his fingers _._ “I—”

“Mr. Zimmermann! Welcome back!” Earl, the custodian, waved them through a side door to the arena. He barely glanced at their joined hands, but he nodded at Eric with a pleasant smile, and Jack exhaled, surprised by the strength of his own relief.

“Hey Earl, how’s Mary?”

They exchanged small talk as they made their way down to the ice, which was where George found them a short time later, before bringing them up to meet with PR.

Where Jack’s brain was currently about to implode.

He had practice in half an hour; this needed to wrap up. “Look,” he inserted tentatively into a pause in the latest explanation of a colorful line graph. “I don’t see why we can’t just go about our business. Show up places like married people do—have dinner or whatever—and eventually everyone will get tired of it and stop,” he waved his hand. “Fawning over us.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Gillian, the one PR person whose name Jack could remember, cajoled. “What you’ve done is so important! You’re going to be a role model for so many! But,” she said when she saw him start to protest. “There is also a very distinct and, if I interject personal opinion just a bit, a disgusting side to all of this. You _will_ have slurs thrown at you, both on and off the ice. Eric _will_ be taunted, possibly threatened.” Her face softened when Jack stiffened. “Let us do our job, to prevent as much of that as we can. Mostly it’s just tweaking people’s perceptions.”

Jack looked at Eric who had fallen silent a long time ago. “Bitty?”

“Oh that’s so cute,” Gillian muttered. She nudged an associate. “Write that down.”

Jack ignored them. “What do you think?”

Eric was twisting his lower lip between two fingers, a nervous habit that Jack wished didn’t do such a number on the inconsistent situation in his pants—especially in light of their unfinished conversation. Eric studied the charts and graphs around the room before he spoke. “I mean…I like the idea of doing the interview with Vanity Fair. I can see why they want Jack. He’s very photogenic and has been extremely recalcitrant and reclusive up to this point in his career.”

Jack’s mouth fell open.  

“What?” Eric shrugged. “You are. And that’s not your usual target demographic, but this is a hot story, so even mainstream media is talking about it. Vanity Fair is a good choice, it makes you accessible, but keeps you elevated and aloof. Plus,” he bumped Jack’s shoulders. “Just think of the pretty photos.” He fanned himself, giving the delighted PR team a baudy wink.

“I hate photo shoots,” Jack grumbled.

“We know,” George replied dryly. “Eric, don’t assume you’ll be off the hook. They specifically want you to be a part of the interview.”

 “Meh, they won’t when they’ve seen me.”

The room went so quiet, the squeak of Gillian’s shoe was like a shot going off.

“What?” Eric shifted nervously. “Why are you all staring?”

Jack grinned. “Because you’re hot, babe.”

Eric blushed nine different shades of red and hid his face in Jack’s shoulder. “Stop.”

“Okay,” Jack ruffled his hair, his own face uncharacteristically warm after the affectionate slip of tongue. “Are we done? I need out of this tiny room.”

Everyone chuckled and the PR team began gathering their displays.

“Jack,” George caught them at the door. “I need Eric for a few minutes, and then I’ll bring him down.”

“Why?” Jack’s eyes narrowed and George laughed.

“Down, boy. Just some paperwork, and he needs a security pass so he can enter and exit the building at will. Go.” She pushed him. “I’ll take care of him.”

Jack raised his brows at Eric, a silent inquiry that George huffed at and he ignored.

“It’s fine,” Eric shrugged. “I’ll sic you on her later if she gets out of line.”

Jack grinned. “You better.” He bent down and kissed him swiftly on the lips. Even though they had planned it, discussed doing it, the moment it happened _hadn’t_ been planned. It had been instinctive, and felt so natural that only Eric’s startled inhale brought Jack crashing back to reality. _They really needed to finish that conversation._  

“Jesus, go!” George pushed him again.

Jack gave a little wave and Eric returned it with a twinkling smile, before following George in the opposite direction. 

Jack made his way to the locker room, a new buoyancy in his step. The upstairs people were happy, Eric seemed good. Sex might still be on the table.

_They kissed._

Jack smiled; today was turning out to be a very good day indeed.


	9. Condoms and Confetti

Jack was waylaid before he made it as far as the locker room.

“Conference room first, Zimms.” Marty jabbed his head in that direction and Jack sighed. He really wanted to get on the ice.

It seemed most of the team had assembled while he was stuck listening to PR dissect his personal life, and now they were all crowded around the conference room door, jostling to get in. There was small talk and razzing about wild nights in Las Vegas—but not one single player spoke to Jack.

He wouldn’t normally give it a second thought, he had always been on the fringes anyway, except—it felt very intentional, the way they avoided meeting his gaze. His stomach started to churn; this wasn’t going to go badly, was it? He’d been playing with the Falconers for over six years. They were his team, his family. He knew at least a few of them suspected he wasn’t entirely straight (he probably had Kent to thank for that), and well—why did it matter anyway? What he did _on_ the ice mattered more. Most. Right?

He worked himself into a fine snit by the time he found himself in front of the open doorway. Mashkov blocked his entry and Jack shifted his weight impatiently. “C’mon, Tater. Move it, I’d like to get sticks down at some point today.”

“Zimmboni wants ice everyone! Is not too tired from big weekend.”

Jack froze—was this it? Was this where the rubber met the road and Jack would know exactly who among his closest friends, were—

“Surprise!” Tater spun out of the way, throwing a handful of shredded pastel confetti in Jack’s face.

Jack sputtered and spit as he was dragged bodily into the room by Tater and someone he couldn’t make out for the glitter painting his eyelids. When he finally _could_ see, he wished he couldn’t, shocked laughter bubbling over at the biggest, brightest, _ugliest_ condom bouquet he had ever seen. It was the centerpiece of the table, surrounded by—

“Are those—are those condom _balloon animals?_ ” He asked, slightly horrified.

“Is easy! Im-per-me-able!” Tater said proudly. “I show?” He reached for a fresh condom (neon orange) from the bouquet.

“No!” At least four guys shouted in protest.

Jack was pushed into a seat that had been gaily decorated in crepe paper wedding bells, jingle bells and bottles of lube trailing to the carpet. He was torn between hoping the floor would swallow him whole and wishing Eric was here to see it. He should take a picture and post it on Instagram; Gilliam and her crew would have a stroke.

Marty stood and cleared his throat as everyone took their seat around the table. He held an envelope in his hand. “Before we watch tape… Jack. On behalf of your teammates, your brothers.” He grinned at the faces around the table. “We would like to be the first—well, the third, after Elvis and TMZ—to congratulate you on your nuptials.”

Tater leaned over to Snowy and whispered, “What means nup-tel?”

“ _Shhh_.”

“We would also like to forewarn you that by hiding your potential spousal unit from us, you have violated Falconers Hockey Code 69.b and as such will be subjected to innuendo-laden chirping for the remainder of your natural life.” He passed Jack the envelope. “We also got you a gift card to the Love Shack, Providence’s finest sex toy shop.”

“Oh my God,” Jack chuckled. He could feel his cheeks burning as he stood, which only served to heighten the cheers and applause from his teammates. “Well, I don’t know what to say, other than I can’t believe any of you thought you’d be invited to the wedding.”

Amid the boos and jeering, Jack also had to dodge several brightly-hued condoms. He waved the envelope. “However, it would be impolite of me not to say thank you for this completely unexpected and inappropriate gift. May we never speak of it again.”

Thirdy, seated on Jack’s left, fist bumped him and several others reached over to pat him on the back when he sat down. It was going to be okay. These were his brothers, his teammates, and they had his back.

As the lights dimmed and a widescreen dropped from the ceiling, the Falconers head coach, Chip “the Boot” Anders, picked up the remote. “Jack, in all seriousness we congratulate you. Now get your game faces on, because the time for foolishness is over. I cannot _believe_ the travesty we are about to witness—and I hope every last one of you can appreciate how much it pains me that we even have to address this shit.”

His face was so grim when he hit play that Jack blanched; he hadn’t thought the game in Vegas had gone that poorly. Sure they had lost, but the Aces were the reigning Stanley Cup champions, and they had fought hard, right up to the—

“Dearly beloved,” a giant, bedazzled Elvis filled the screen. “I join you on this joyous night—”

Whatever else Elvis was going to say was drowned out by raucous cheers and hooting, and Jack was showered anew with a fresh bucket of condoms.

“As I was saying,” Coach Anders yelled over the noise, pointing at video Jack, who was kissing video Eric to beat the band. “I cannot _believe_ you had Elvis _right there,_ and didn’t choose Burning Love as your first song.”

On queue, music filled the room and Thirdy jumped up on the table and started to sing.

 _Yeah_ , Jack thought, cracking up at the spot on rendition—lip curl, hip swivel and all. _It was going to be okay._

_/ \\_

In the lull between shooting and passing drills, Jack spotted Eric sitting in the stands, a lone figure in a sea of blue. He waved before he thought, which resulted in Tater grabbing him by the helmet and mashing their face masks together while simultaneously making kissy noises.

“Get a room!” Someone yelled.

Jack shoved Tater off with a laugh and skated over to the players benches, waiting for Eric to come down to meet him. He grinned at him through the high acrylic shielding. “How are you holding up?”

Eric waved a hand back and forth to indicate _so so_ , then laughed. “I’m just kidding. This is awesome!” He nodded toward the ice where Tater was still trying to find someone who would stand still long enough so he could kiss them. “I take it they know?”

Jack snorted. “You could say that.” He held up his gloved fist to the shield and Eric bumped it from the other side. “I’ll meet you by the tunnel in twenty, okay?” He waited for Eric’s nod before hitting the ice again and skating away.

Coach Anders must have had a twinge of conscience, because he warned the guys before they reached Eric. “No throwing condoms at Jack’s boy.” He nodded solemnly at Jack. “At least until we know him better.”

Jack shook his head with a grin and took a deep breath; time for introductions.

It was absolute chaos for a solid five minutes although it still went better than Jack had hoped. Eric was starting to look a little ragged around the edges by the end of it, though, so Jack rescued him from yet another selfie with Tater. He sat him down in front of his locker. “I’m going to jump in the shower. You’ll be okay?”

Eric gave him a dry look. “I’ve been in hockey locker rooms half my life, Zimmermann. I’m fine.”

“Okay, okay,” Jack held up his hands in mock defeat and turned to go. He jumped when Eric slapped him on the ass, and glanced down, brow raised.

Eric winked. “But hurry.”

It was Eric’s turn to jump when Tater dropped onto the bench beside him.

“Ten out of ten, would tap the Zimmboni ass,” Tater said solemnly holding up a fist.

Eric laughed and bumped him. “Amen.” When Tater stood, Eric grabbed his big, meaty paw before quietly adding, “But don’t.”

 Tater grinned and patted the top of Eric’s head. “No worry, little Zimms. Big Zimms is—” He fluttered his eyelashes and swayed back and forth with a goofy smile on his face, arms wrapped tight around himself. “Hey!” he yelled when someone’s dirty sock hit him in the face.

“Sit down, Tater, you’re drunk!”

“Drunk on love,” Tater amended, before patting Eric’s head again and ambling off to the showers.

_/ \\_

Jack squatted down on the asphalt and combed through his dufflebag for the third time. He had already checked every pocket for his keys. “Sorry, I must have left them inside.”

Eric stood on tiptoe and peered into the truck. “Uh, Jack?”

Jack groaned and checked the door—unlocked. When he pulled it open, a shower of condoms fell out and covered their feet.

“Oh my _God,_ ” Eric squeaked, jumping out of the way.

“Told you,” Jack sighed, squatting and scooping as many as possible into the open duffle. “Just—get in. Security can handle the rest.” He grimaced when he saw his keys in the ignition. One of those jackasses had clearly swiped them from his bag while they were at practice.

Eric climbed in and snapped his seatbelt into place. “Well,” he shrugged cheerfully. “You gotta admit, it coulda gone worse!”  He swept a pile of condoms out from under his butt, grabbing one and peering at the label. “Hmm. At least they were considerate enough to choose the correct size.”

“Bitty!” Jack scrubbed his face, blushing. “Jesus.”

 “I don’t think Jesus is invited.” Eric tossed the condom up and caught it midair. “Although if I remember right, you _were_ calling to God when—”

“La la la la la la!” Jack sang, the truck’s engine roaring to life. Now he _really_ needed a drink. “How do you feel about Mexican? I’m starving.”

“Excuse me, _what?_ ” Eric was clearly stunned. “Are you telling me Mr. Hockey Man himself Jack Zimmermann is going to cheat on his very strict meal plan during a _game week_?”

Jack shrugged, flipping the turn signal toward home. “I’m on my honeymoon. I’m entitled to a cheat day.” He felt more than saw Eric wiggle on the seat.

“Then I feel _incredible_ about Mexican,” Eric said, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.

“Good.” Jack knew a great little restaurant, not too far from his apartment.

When he pulled into the parking garage beneath his building, Eric frowned. “Already come to your senses?”

“No.” Jack backed into his space and turned off the truck. “I thought we could walk.”

“It’s cold!”

Jack stared. “It’s 50 degrees.”

“Brrrr,” Eric shivered, holding himself tight.

Jack rolled his eyes and dragged him from the truck, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll cuddle you.”

“Or we could take a cab.”

“It’s 2 blocks!”

“Fine.” Eric sighed, tentatively wrapping an arm around Jack’s waist. “Although let’s walk fast. The quicker you get me liquored up, the warmer I’ll be.”

Jack snorted. “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how we ended up in this situation in the first place.”

“And two wrongs don’t make a right, etcetera etcetera. Booze! Now!”

As they navigated the waning late afternoon crowds, Jack considered the passersby; so far they weren’t attracting any attention. Not that he normally would, just walking down the street in front of his home. People in Providence were polite, and very kind, and typically waited until he initiated some sort of eye contact before approaching him, almost like they were waiting for his unspoken permission.

Just in case, he didn’t meet anyone’s curious gaze for too long. He wasn’t ready to share Eric yet, and he knew he wasn’t ready for anyone’s disapproval. At the corner light, they turned left, and he could see the restaurant up ahead, brightly lit and busy. His stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten enough today, nervous about Eric, about the team, about the PR strategy. He had been one giant knot of anxiety when he first stepped onto the ice, and even after a hard workout, he could still feel the tension in his neck and shoulders.

He wasn’t a drinker, normally, but a little tequila never hurt anyone. Or so Thirdy was always telling him.

Conversation flowed easily as they ate (partially helped along by the margaritas). He avoided questions about himself by asking Eric about his life at Samwell, surprised to discover he was a nutrition major.

“Wait, what?”

Eric shrugged. “Yeah, I’m in the dietetics program. If all goes well, I’ll be a registered dietician in t-minus 18 months.”

“Eric, that’s awesome.” Jack reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “I had no idea.”

“I mean, to be honest, there’s a lot about me you don’t know,” Eric pointed out, sipping at his drink. 

“For example?” Jack felt the last of his knots loosening, the warmth of Eric’s eyes and the gentle cadence of his accent soothing away the final vestiges of nerves.

“For example…I bake.”

“I knew that.”

“No, you knew I _cooked._ I’m a good cook; I’m an _excellent_ baker.”

“Are you going to bake for me? That sounds dangerous.”

Eric’s eyes sparkled, the vibrant colors of the twinkle lights shifting their hue. “I most certainly am. Just don’t tell your nutritionist.”

The restaurant was full, which meant the burgeoning noise forced Jack to lean in closer to hear him. “What Nate doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” he replied, his voice huskier than it had been pre-margarita.

Eric must have noticed too because his eyes dropped to Jack’s mouth. When he licked his lips, Jack nearly groaned. “I, um, I tweet too,” Eric said with a wince. “Gillian had gone through my entire twitter feed before we got there this morning.”

Jack blinked. “Eric—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. There wasn’t really anything too humiliating. Me chirping my teammates, talking about my vlog—oh, I have a YouTube channel too—and you know, bragging that I was going to see Jack Zimmermann live and in person in Las Vegas.” He covered his face with both hands. “God! I’m so embarrassed.”

Jack perked up. “Wait, really? You were there to see me? And you tweeted about it?”

“Not _you_ you,” Eric moaned. “The Falconers _and_ you. Lardo had a ton of miles so we got a great deal on flights, and we had a bye week and y’all were in _Vegas_ and—”

“Eric!” Jack grabbed his hand, squeezing when Eric stiffened. “I’m glad.”

They smiled at one another for a quiet beat.

“Me too,” Eric said softly.

Jack glanced down at their joined hands. “We really need new rings.”

Eric snatched his hand back. “What? Why?”

Jack held up his left arm, wiggling his fingers. “Because my finger looks like it has gangrene.”

Eric snorted so loud he slapped a palm over his mouth.

“Yeah laugh it up, Chucky. Meanwhile _you_ are sporting Mount Olympus on your ring finger.”

Eric held up the hand in question, turning it back and forth so the gaudy faux diamonds caught the light. “You don’t think it’s a _little_ classy?”

“I think it’s hideous,” Jack deadpanned, laughing at Eric’s offended expression. “I’m buying us new ones.”

“Fine,” Eric huffed, grabbing his glass and downing the remaining liquid before sighing. “I have to go back to Samwell, you know.”

Jack toyed with his napkin. “I know. When?”

Eric wrinkled his nose. “Tonight? I don’t have any clothes and I can’t miss more class. Or practice.”

Jack thought about unfinished conversations and lonely nights and an empty bed. “I’m driving you.”

“I can take the train—”

“I’m driving you.”

Eric shook his head, smile soft. “Okay.”

Jack pushed his half-finished margarita toward Eric. “Which means, you get the rest of _that._ ”

Eric considered the glass and then looked up at him through his lashes. “Doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“No.” Jack had to clear his throat. “It doesn’t.”

“Next time, maybe,” Eric muttered, and Jack had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t dwell on it because Eric tipped up the glass and Jack’s gaze got caught on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“We should go,” he said, feeling woozy even though he hadn’t really drunk that much at all.

Jack paid, and Eric insisted on leaving the tip, which Jack thought was unreasonably adorable, and probably one more tick in the _This Is Going To Be A Problem_ column of his life. As they walked back to the apartment, Jack initially thought it best to keep his distance, make a clean break as some sort of martyred preparation for the inevitable split that was to come. He hadn’t counted on how cuddly a tipsy Eric was, though, and found himself tucking him into his side, holding him close and letting his happy chatter flow around them—enjoying it because he didn’t know when he would have another chance.

Yeah, this was most definitely going to be a problem.


	10. The One Where Jack Zimmermann Has a Kink

The drive to return Eric to Samwell passed far too quickly. On the one hand, Jack mused, it meant Eric technically wasn’t that far away. On the other, it meant their time together was over before he was ready.

How had it only been two days?

Eric directed him through the campus to what he described as fraternity row, pointing out an empty spot just across the street from the fading two-story that served as the Samwell Men’s Hockey Haus. Jack frowned at the number of collegians roaming around in the vicinity—there were definitely too many males of above-average attractiveness.

“Are there always this many people loitering about?”

“They’re frat houses, Jack. That’s kind of the point.”

“Hmph,” Jack grunted. The truck’s windows weren’t tinted, and they were starting to attract a fair number of curious glances. He accidentally made eye contact with one person who obviously recognized either he, or Eric—or both—and she immediately grabbed the arm of her friend. “We have witnesses. Two o’clock.”

Eric unsnapped his seat belt and slid closer. “Then I guess it’s time for some of those demonstrative smoochies.”

Jack couldn’t hide his smile and brought one hand up to play with a dark blonde curl above Eric’s ear. When Eric leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering, Jack remembered that he’d had two and half margaritas to Jack’s half of one. He was just about to withdraw his arm when Eric surged forward and kissed him.

It was chaste, the brush of his lips painfully soft, Eric’s hands anchored on Jack’s thigh, elbows locked. He pulled away just as quickly but the tiny hitch in his breath was so intoxicating that Jack grabbed the back of his head and brought their mouths together again. _To make it look good_ would be a nice cover story, but it would also be a lie; this one was purely for _Jack_. Eric’s mouth opened under his and he groaned, the tentative touch of their tongues more potent than any tequila.

“I don’t—” Jack broke first. “ _Jesus._ ” Eric’s eyes were still closed so he pressed another quick kiss to the side of his mouth. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” That was real, for Eric, not for the lingering voyeurs.

Eric blinked rapidly, cheeks flushed. “I could—” he swayed toward Jack, catching himself again on his thigh. “I could grab some clothes, take the train back here in the morning.”

Jack eyed the growing crowd of people pretending not to pay them any attention. “I don’t want you taking the train alone,” he said gruffly, fingers tightening on the back of Eric’s neck.

Eric deflated, forehead falling against Jack’s cheek. “Then I think you’d better let me out.”

Jack gritted his teeth; it would go against everything he was feeling to open that door and watch Eric walk away—but he couldn’t think of any other solution. He reached between them to unclip his seatbelt. “I’m buying you a car.”

Eric snorted, the warm dampness of his breath tickling Jack’s neck. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

“Yes I can.” Jack’s tone was so petulant that Eric leaned back to study him.

“Wait. Are you _pouting_ , Mr. Zimmermann?”

“No. I’m a millionaire who can buy you a damn car if he wants to.”

Eric’s answering smile was blinding. He leaned in and kissed Jack again, a quick, efficient peck on the lips. “I don’t need you to buy me things.” He pressed his index finger to Jack’s lips when he started to protest. “But I appreciate the thought.” He stuck his tongue firmly in his cheek. “And I _really_ appreciate the pout, _fuck_ that’s pretty _._ ”

“Get out. Get out right now,” Jack said firmly, flinging open the door and pointing at the Haus.

Eric threw back his head and laughed. Eyes mischievous, he held out a hand. “Give me your phone, handsome.”

“Why?” But Jack handed it over, unlocking it when Eric scowled at the lockscreen.

“Because I can’t sext you tonight if I don’t have your number.”

Jack’s heart flipped end over end right down to his toes. “I, uh…”

“I, uh, what?” Eric mimicked archly. “You gonna be too busy to phone sex your husband?”

“Bitty,” Jack breathed, fingers tightening around his hip just for something to hold onto. “I—are we— _shit._ ”

Eric climbed over his lap and hopped down to the ground. “We’re testing the water. Besides.” He handed back the phone. “I’m horny as fuck.”

_“Bittle. Jesus Christ.”_

“Will you _please_ stop calling forth the Lord our Savior during sex,” Eric hissed, looking around as though he expected God himself to appear.

Jack grinned. “But we’re not having sex.”

Eric’s expression was so dry it might as well have been the Sahara. “I know full well you understand foreplay, Jack Zimmermann.”

Jack couldn’t argue with that and neither could his jeans. “I better get on the road. So you can,” he waved his hand. “You know.”

Eric looked offended. “This?” He dug his own phone out of pocket. “Will be a no contact zone until you are safely parked in Providence, mister. Got it?”

“Got it.” Jack started to shut his door, pausing when Eric thrust out his hand.

“Wait!” Eric slipped into the narrow V created by the partially open door and pulled Jack down until their heads were tucked together, cheek to cheek. He held up his phone and snapped a photo.

The lighting was perfect, Jack thought. _The golden hour_. They looked good together, a little tired, but happy. Like newlyweds should. He watched as Eric posted it to Instagram, tagging Jack’s new account. He captioned it _First night apart_ with a sad face emoji.

“Too much?” He tilted the phone in Jack’s direction, but Jack was already distracted by the sweetly curved shell of his ear.

“Hmmm?” He tucked his nose into Eric’s hair and inhaled. _Maybe he could get up extra early and drive Eric back to Samwell himself._  

“Okay!” Eric straightened, shoving Jack back into the truck. “Go before I regret all of my life choices.”

Jack chuckled and shut the door. He rolled down the window, revving the engine in case there were any dickhead frat boys still loitering around. “Bye, Bitty.”

“Drive safe, Jack.”

Jack noticed the drive home was a hell of a lot longer when he was alone. He stopped for gas near Providence, and while the tank filled he pulled up Eric’s Instagram post, liking it and commenting with a single heart. He would probably never hear the end of it if any of the Falcs saw it, but he figured it would tickle Eric. When he started the truck up again, he noticed the sun had finally dropped below the horizon, spilling bright oranges and purples across the sky. The pretty light pooled in the empty passenger seat, creating a lonely spotlight, so he carefully framed up the shot and took a picture. He thumbed through some of the filters before he posted it clean, ultimately deciding the original was his favorite anyway. He tagged Eric, no caption.

Eric’s crying emoji response appeared almost instantaneously and Jack chuckled. They were completely ridiculous, but from the way his notifications were blowing up, Falconers fans loved it. That was a good sign and it eased Jack’s nerves.

 Eric must have been timing his drive, because he got a text just as he was unlocking his door.

  ** _Eric:_** _I made mini quiche this morning and stuck them in the fridge for your breakfast.. Do not blaspheme them by drinking a protein shake instead._

Jack grinned. _How the hell did you have time to make quiche??? I was only in the shower 10 minutes._

 **_Eric:_ ** _They were MINI quiche!_

Jack tucked the phone under his chin while he hung up his jacket. The apartment was dark and quiet and it struck him as strange that he had never noticed before how complete the stillness could be. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he did feel a weird sense of displacement and longed for some background noise—another first. He flipped on the television before wandering into the kitchen for a bottle of water. He found Eric’s quiche on the top shelf of the fridge, adorned with a single notecard. It read: _Serving Size is ONE homeskillet!_ and was followed by reheating instructions.

 **_Eric:_ ** _You can’t have one now. You had Mexican. AND tequila!_

 **_Jack:_ ** _You drank my tequila._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Lord I know, I’m still buzzed._

 **_Jack:_ ** _How’s the other thing?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _…_

 **_Eric:_ ** _What other thing_

 ** _Jack:_** _Your pants feelings._ Jack grinned before he hit send.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Are you CHIRPING ME Jack Zimmermann?_

 **_Jack:_ ** _That’s a yes._

 **_Eric:_ ** _That’s a none of your beeswax._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Why? What are you wearing?_

Jack glanced down at himself and then blatantly lied. _Jeans, unbuttoned. No shirt. No shoes._ He toed off his shoes and yanked his t-shirt over his head. His fingers shook as he uncapped the water and took a long drink.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Are you on the balcony?_

Jack bit his lip and said a prayer. _No. Should I be?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Oh fuck if you start letting me tell you what to do we’re in bigger trouble than I thought._

Jack huffed and undid the top button on his jeans. _I don’t know what you like._ It was hard to hit _send_ , because it felt like annihilating his last line of defense. He pressed it anyway, because he couldn’t remember the last time he had been this turned on. They were barreling past every reservation and personal boundary they had self-erected to keep them apart, but Jack didn’t want to stop. It was too good—he was already hard, nerves sparking hot and tingly all over his body. His hand flattened on his stomach as he waited for Eric’s reply, and he could feel the muscles trembling under his palm.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Not the balcony—I’m not ready to share._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Yet._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Bed. So I can imagine you there._

Jack didn’t have the presence of mind to ask about Eric until he was peeling back the freshly made linens. _Where are you?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _I’m on my tiny lumpy TWIN SIZE MATTRESS **.** Feel my pain._

 **_Jack:_ ** _I wish I could feel you._

Jack literally didn’t know what had come over him. He undid the rest of the buttons on his fly, splaying open the front of his jeans and scraping his nails down his erection through his boxers. He shuddered at the sharp spike of desire, stomach clenching; if Eric didn’t get this show on the road he was going to come in his pants.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Jesus. This will be over before it starts if you keep saying things like that._

Jack snorted. _Now who’s calling forth the Lord._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I would chirp back but I’m too busy getting my pants off._

 **_Jack:_ ** _{frowny face}_

 **_Eric:_ ** _What? You don’t want me naked?_

Jack’s fingers made a fist and he groaned. _Yes but_

 **_Eric:_ ** _But what? Do you have a kink Jack Zimmermann?_

Jack blushed. But—he’d come this far, so… whatever. Go big or go home. _I’d like to put you on the kitchen counter, jeans to your knees_

 **_Eric:_ ** _??? AND? DON’T STOP THERE I’M DYING_

 **_Eric:_ ** _(Also—I cook on that counter mister)_

Jack laughed, wishing he could hear him, see him. His belly swooped when he thought about doing this over Skype. _And I’m {blushing emoji}_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Oh fuck don’t be cute now, I can’t handle it under the influence_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Still buzzing?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Not from booze! I’m fully drunk on Jack Laurent Zimmermann._

 **_Jack:_ ** _You know my middle name??_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Um. The guys might have decorated my room while I was gone._

Jack had to set the phone aside while he wiggled out of his jeans; after a moment of indecision he shucked his boxers too, stretching out across the bed.

 **_Jack:_ ** _Uh oh. Condom tree?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Nothing that creative. Just every poster, magazine, and shitty printed internet article they could get their hands on in the last twenty-four hours. My walls are…interesting._

 ** _Jack:_** _I want to see_ He smiled; he really did want to see. It warmed him that Eric was also getting the full acceptance of his teammates. It was going to be difficult enough without the added stress of hostile team dynamics.

His phone buzzed and a picture came through. It was dim, but he could still make out the haphazardly placed, glossy pages cut from a dozen different magazine interviews he’d done over the past few years. Most included full-page photos of Jack (in and out of uniform). Barely visible on the left edge of the frame, Jack spotted his contribution to the latest ESPN Body Issue, blown up poster-size. _I see someone got their hands on my ESPN shoot._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I’m keeping that._

 **_Jack:_ ** _I could autograph it for you_

 **_Eric:_ ** _You could also shut up and get naked_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Already there_

 **_Eric:_ ** _!!_

 **_Eric:_ ** _WAIT FOR ME_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Hurry up squirt, I’m all hot and bothered_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Don’t call me squirt when my hand is on my dick_

Jack snorted. _When did hands get on dicks? Now who’s jumping the gun_

 **_Eric:_ ** _There’s a three foot poster of you nude and holding a hockey stick at the foot of my bed. Of course my hand is on my dick_

Jack laughed, the sound bouncing happily across the room. This was fun, and he couldn’t say he’d ever really had _fun_ while having sex before. Sex had always been more of a means to an end. This was different. _Ok, dick in hand._

 **_Eric:_ ** _God I wish I could see you_

Jack bit his lip; he maybe wasn’t ready for face to face, not yet—this was too easy and somehow sweet—but he wouldn’t mind coming to the sound of Eric’s voice. He pressed _call_ and brought the phone to his ear.

“Oh thank fuck,” Eric breathed in lieu of hello. “It was getting hard to type.”

Jack chuckled softly, repositioning the phone so his right hand was free to continue its previous activities. “You sound like you’re still ahead of me.” He fisted his dick, eyes closing at the exquisiteness of that first long stroke.

“I mean, I basically started the second you left, so…”

“Not fair.” Jack swallowed thickly, his hand moving up to smear the first drops of precome down his length, easing the way. “I was driving.”

“I,” Eric paused, breath heavy in Jack’s ear. “Your Instagram post. _Jack._ ”

And Jack didn’t know if the emphasis was because Eric really loved the photo, or if he’d turned the curve and was barreling toward the finish line without him. “Slow. Down.” Jack had to squeeze the base of his dick at Eric’s shuddering exhale against his ear.

“Okay.” Eric sounded like he had just played a full game, winded and weak. “I’m waiting. Tell me when.”

“When you can touch yourself again?” Jack didn’t know when their roles had switched, but it was turning him the fuck on, imagining Eric naked and panting, hands fisted in the sheet by his sides, waiting for Jack to give him permission to— _“Fuck,_ Eric _.”_

His hand sped up again; he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Jack,” Eric whined. “Can I? Please?” He sounded tortured, his breath coming in little gasps, and Jack was furious with himself that he wasn’t there to see it.

“Yeah, baby, touch yourself for me.” The gentleness of his own voice surprised him, but Eric didn’t seem to notice, groaning in relief, the only other sounds the rustle of his bedding. Jack was close, _so close,_ but he had lost ability to speak, to check to see if Eric was there too—and then Eric moaned Jack’s name so sweetly that he came on the spot.

They panted together through the aftershocks, and Jack blissfully wondered if he should be embarrassed, if the sounds Eric made—and vice versa—were what he would remember the next time they were face to face. What came out of his mouth instead was, “Goddamn, that was amazing.”

Eric snorted, which set off Jack, and then they dissolved in tired laughter and gentle chirping until Jack finally had to say goodnight.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Eric said softly on a yawn. “Sleep tight, Jack.”

“Good night, Bitty.”


	11. Itty Bitty Georgians and Heat Intolerant Canadians

The single most frustrating moment of Jack’s life was the next morning when he woke up in bed alone. He groaned and grabbed the pillow Eric had slept on, wrapping around it and burying his face in the downy softness. He inhaled, but there was no trace of _Bitty_ left behind, the sheets clean. Sighing, he flopped to his back. _This was most definitely a problem._

He stared at the light fixture overhead without really seeing it, thinking about the previous night, about Eric’s laugh, the way he fully embraced teasing Jack, giving as good as he got, coaxing Jack to _play._ It had been fuck all of a long time since Jack had just… _played_.

He remembered the way Eric had clung to him at the arena, unsure about the other half of Jack’s world, trusting Jack to take care of him. The way a surge of protectiveness had flooded through him, a dozen promises half formed on his tongue even now.

He scrubbed his face with both hands and groaned again _._

_He might be falling for his husband._

Feeling ridiculously happy, Jack laughed at himself and glanced at the clock. _6:02._ He needed get up and go for his run; it would clear his head, and when he got back, he had mini-quiche waiting for him in the fridge.

_/ \\_

Jack washed and dried his plate and fork, glancing down at the missed call notification he’d gotten while he was in the shower. _Maman._

He had to give her credit; both of his parents had been awfully patient with him. They would know by now that they had a new son-in-law, but they hadn’t pushed Jack for information, understanding he would call them when he could.

Before he dialed he sent Eric a text. _When are you coming back?_

To his surprise, Eric replied while he was waiting for his mom to answer.

 **_Eric:_ ** _It’s the middle of the night_

Jack chuckled and replied quickly, putting his mother’s call on speaker. _It’s almost 8. Don’t you have class? And that’s not an answer._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Are you pouting? Don’t pout and not send pic proof you asshole._

“Jack, sweetheart!”

Jack’s heart squeezed, a happy flip; lord he loved his mother. She was the epitome of everything good in his life and always had been.

 **_Eric:_ ** _This lengthy pause better mean you’re taking that pic. The nuder the better._

“Hey, mom.” Jack carried his tea and phone out onto the balcony, feeling strangely content to have both his mother and Eric entwined in the same conversation.

“So you have news.” She sounded far away, as though she was in a cave.

“What are you doing? Are you busy?” Jack sipped his tea, chuckling at the {angry} emoji Eric sent.

“What? Oh no!” Her breathless voice came back more clear and focused. “Sorry, I was trying to find my shoes.”

“Going for a run?” Jack baited her; his mother hated exercise.

“Very funny,” she retorted, then added, “Mr. Bittle-Zimmerman.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Ah, Zimmerman-Bittle if you ask Eric.”

“Eric, huh?” He could hear rustling now; she was settling into her favorite chair by the window, looking out at her garden, probably sipping her own tea.

“Yes,” he said, heart clenching again with hopeful anticipation. Eric could go with him to Montreal next month, meet his parents. He wanted that; he was shocked by how much he wanted that.

 **_Eric:_ ** _JACK LAURENT ZIMMERMAN_

“Maman, hold on a sec, he’s having a fit in my text messages.”

“Already whipped, I see,” she teased, and Jack flushed.

“ _Mom._ ”

“Go, go. I’ll be right here.”

Jack dashed out a quick reply. _My mother is on the line so I’m fully clothed._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Rats_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Oh! Not about your mom. Tell her I said hi? {blushing emoji}_

Jack smiled. _Go to class._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Fine but you owe me._

Jack was just about to switch back to the call when his phone buzzed again.

 **_Eric:_ ** _I can’t come tonight and probably not tomorrow either—practice—but I was thinking about coming for the game on Friday?_

Jack suffered both instant disappointment and a tiny thrill of anticipation; Eric would be here Friday. It was just three days—he could endure for three days.

 ** _Jack:_** _I guess I’ll survive._ He bit into his bottom lip. _I have plenty of protein shakes. And the internet to keep me company._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I’m stocking your freezer this weekend._

 **_Eric:_ ** _And if you’re coyly referring to porn HELL TO THE NO_

Jack chuckled. _Talk later?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _{kiss emoji}_

“Mom?”

“That took long enough.” Her voice still held a teasing lilt. “All better?”

“Yes.” It was simpler than trying to explain how sincerely happy he felt, and why. _He_ didn’t even quite understand why. “I’m sorry I didn’t call right away.”

“Oh, Jack,” she said softly. “You’re a grown man, with your own life. I would have loved knowing you had someone that meant so much to you, that you would elope—” she sniffed and Jack felt like an absolute heel.

“Maman, I didn’t, I mean—” He hadn’t cleared this with Eric, what they were officially telling their parents. He didn’t want to hurt her, by letting her believe he’d shut her out of something so important in his life, but he also felt a sense of loyalty to Eric. Eric, who he was beginning to suspect he _would_ have wanted to elope with, eventually, had they met by happenstance and started dating, slowly entangling their lives until there was no more room for doubt. They were doing everything backwards, but somehow it felt very natural.

And Jack had very little doubt, about Eric, as it was. “It happened very fast,” he settled on.

“You’re not usually impulsive,” she said quietly. “Are you sure everything is okay? He’s good to you?”

Jack could hear the worry in her voice and knew that, at least in part, she was thinking about his time with Kent. Kent, who had consumed him body and soul, until there was very little of _Jack_ remaining. “Yes, maman. You’re going to love him.” And she would, both of his parents would, of that Jack was sure. “He cooks.”

“Ah, so the truth comes out at last,” she laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. “Has he met the team? I’m assuming Georgia has a plan.”

And so they continued chatting, little bits and pieces of _Eric_ dropping so effortlessly into the conversation that Jack didn’t even register them until his mother said, as they were hanging up, “You sound so happy, sweetheart. I can’t wait to meet your Eric.”

Jack flushed, ridiculously pleased. “Thank you, maman. I am.”

And when he hung up, he realized…he was. _One parent down, one to go._ Jack took a deep breath and dialed his dad.

_/ \\_

“So how’d it go with your mom?”

Jack could tell from the casually nonchalant way Eric voiced the question, his eyes not quite meeting the camera, that he was more than a little interested in the answer. Jack hid his smile, tempted to make him sweat; Eric’s exasperated face was one of his very favorite things. He dragged _Eric’s_ pillow over and fluffed it on top his own, settling back with the laptop balanced on his stomach. “I mean,” Jack shrugged, face carefully composed. “I don’t see them that often anyway, so would it really matter if…” He trailed off, shaking his head sadly.

“What? What happened!” Eric sat straight up, eyes flying across the screen. When he worried his lower lip between his teeth, Jack A) wanted to die, and B) couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Gotcha.”

“You _asshole,_ ” Eric gasped, falling back against his bed. He flopped over on one side, making Jack’s view of his bedroom tilt haphazardly until he had the laptop more securely positioned beside him. “Just for that, no sexting tonight for you.”

Jack grinned. “No?” He very deliberately made a show of peeling off his shirt. “Well, okay then. I guess I’d better be going…” He started to lower the laptop lid.

“Wait!” Eric sighed at Jack’s answering bark of laughter. “I fucking love when you laugh.” He scrunched up his nose contemplatively. “Also, be a good husband and move the laptop so I can see all of you.”

Jack chuckled and rolled, mimicking Eric’s position. “Better?”

“Mmmm,” Eric shrugged. “Kinda. Take off your pants.”

“Eric,” Jack chided, voice lowering. “Tit for tat.”

“I ain’t ever been much one for tits,” Eric joked, “but okay, if I must.” His face disappeared behind a rustle of deep red knit. When he reappeared, his hair was mussed, and Jack wished he was there to pet it. Pet _him._ “Better?”

“Much.”

“Good, now roll over so I can see that Zimmermann ass.”

Jack snorted. “I will not roll over so you can ogle my ass.”

“Party pooper.”

Jack stretched one long arm over his head, shamelessly posing. “You can look at everything else.”

“Mmmm, that’s nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t talk, you’re ruining the illusion.”

Jack laughed out loud. “Dick.” When Eric shivered, he took pity on him. “Put your shirt back on before you freeze.”

Eric scowled. “Don’t sound so smug. Layin’ there in all your hyper-muscled pro athlete glory. Not my fault I’m without my own personal Canadian space heater tonight.” He shrugged back into the tee with a shudder.

“It’s partially your fault,” Jack noted. “You could be here if you’d let me buy you a car.”

“ _Jack._ ”

Jack laughed softly. “Okay, okay. Then maybe you should go turn up the heat.”

“I can’t,” Eric grumbled. “Haus rules. Bunch of heat intolerant Yankees.”

“You don’t think it might be the itty bitty Georgian who’s the anomaly?” Jack sighed to himself; Eric’s gorgeous face was perfect but he already missed the shadowy planes of his tight little abs. He shivered too, hoping Eric didn’t see.

“Ah ha! You’re cold too!” Eric’s eyes lit up, voice triumphant.

“No, I’m horny,” Jack said dryly.

Eric blinked. “Damn.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I just keep forgetting this isn’t one-sided.” Jack’s answering smile was so slow and sexy that Eric groaned. “Literally fuck you Jack Zimmermann, I don’t have time for this tonight.”

“Why not?” Jack’s brows drew together in a disgruntled frown.

Eric propped his chin up on one fist with a smirk. “There’s my pouty Falconer.” He sighed heavily. “Shit my battery is almost dead. I swear this laptop is on its last leg.”

“I’ll—”

“Jack Zimmermann, don’t you dare say you’ll buy me a new one.”

Jack made a lock and key motion over his mouth with a smile.

“That’s not why I can’t—” Eric ducked his head, suddenly bashful. “ _You know._ I need to finish studying for a test.”

“I could help?” Jack asked hopefully, not ready for the conversation to end.

Eric shook his head. “You have absolutely no idea what kind of distraction you are, do you?”

“Uh, no?” Jack frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Eric smiled. He glanced down again and then said in a rush, “I’m going to be in the shower in five minutes.”

“Okay.” Jack tilted his head, feeling like he’d missed part of the conversation.

“Jack,” Eric said patiently. “I’ll be _in the shower._ In five minutes.” His gaze very pointedly trailed across Jack’s body on the screen. “Thinking of you.”

“Oh.” Jack hid his smile, shrugging indifferently. “What a coincidence. I’m heading to the shower myself.”

“Good.” Eric’s expression softened. “Two days.”

Jack wondered how long it took to die from impatience. “Sleep well.”

Ten minutes later he fell onto his bed, damp and sated. His phone buzzed.

 **_Eric:_ ** _It was good for me, was it good for you?_

Jack smiled. _Yes—but it’ll be better in two days._

 **_Eric:_ ** _No pressure wow._

 **_Jack:_ ** _I have just the kitchen counter waiting._

 **_Eric:_ ** _This is no time to be thinking about your stomach Jack._

Jack chuckled. _Night Bitty._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Night handsome._

As Jack set the alarm on his phone, he received notification of a new Instagram tag; when he opened it, it was a sleepy, tousled selfie of Eric. The caption read: _Friday can’t get here soon enough._

Jack liked it and replied _Two more days._ He was about to put his phone down when there was another tag notification. This time the selfie was from Tater—alone in bed, his hair overly mussed. The caption read: _Morning practice can’t get here soon enough._

Jack laughed and against his better judgment, replied, _Smartass._ Then he locked his phone and slid into bed.

 _Two more days._


	12. Hockey and Ice Cream Cones

Thursday proved to be the calm before the storm, the kind of slow, restorative day that Jack often longed for but seldom received. The only thing missing was Eric, who had practice and an evening study group, which meant Jack’s daydream ending to an otherwise perfect day was foiled. It was all right, though—Eric would be all his in less than twenty four hours.

It was crazy how significant that was.

 Friday started with one minor disaster before steamrolling straight into hell. First, Jack woke up to a dead phone and a faulty charging cord, so he missed his requisite morning text from Eric. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t survive without the frequent, tiny contact points throughout the day, but in an astonishingly short period of time they had become an integral part of Jack’s routine. He was also irrationally annoyed by the fact that he had become so dependent on a single piece of technology that its absence had any kind of real power over his mood.

Then, during his morning run, he sidestepped to avoid a particularly aggressive poodle and turned his ankle on the dewy grass. It wasn’t serious; but it was sore enough that it required a few rounds of ice once he was back home and it would need to be taped before the game. His phone remained inoperable—he had to fit a cord replacement somewhere into the day’s itinerary—so he attempted to Skype message Eric, before remembering that Eric’s laptop had finally given up the ghost the night before. Eric had called it a ‘noble death’ but Jack had made a mental note to drag him to an electronics store over the weekend and force him to choose a replacement (annoying technology addictions be damned).

 The inability to reach Eric was a nagging, festering irritation that cast a pall over the rest of Jack’s day, preventing him from fully settling down for a nap before he left for the arena. He was tired, grumpy, his ankle was sore—and he had to remind himself every few minutes to relax his shoulders; the extra tension was giving him one hell of a headache. He stopped at a nearby Target to grab a cord and a car charger, and the only bright spot of the afternoon was the fact that no one recognized him and he was able to pop in and out, quick and easy. Back in the truck, he immediately plugged in his phone in the hopes he could exchange at least a couple of messages with Eric before he was forcibly out of contact until after the game.

His stomach rolled uneasily as he contemplated the evening ahead; it would be the first time Eric appeared in such a public capacity and he knew Eric was nervous too. Jack hated that he hadn’t been available to offer any kind of support on today, of all days. Eric was outwardly sunshine and sass, but he was also hesitant and endearingly cautious, as if he hadn’t yet grasped how much Jack was _in this_ , no matter how many ways Jack tried to express it. Words weren’t Jack’s thing, and mind-reading wasn’t Eric’s, and together they needed to get their shit together before Jack suffered a breakdown and locked them in his bedroom for a week to prove the disconcerting level of sheer _want_ he was carting around these days.

Not that that was a horrible idea. But probably not the solution most conducive to a mature, lasting adult relationship. Which was Jack’s end goal. He just had to find a way to… tell Eric first.

During the brief drive from Target to Citizen’s Center, Jack’s phone never stopped vibrating. He ignored the insistent _bzzzz_ until he was parked in the gated lot behind the arena, amazed at how tempting it had been to peek at several points along the way. It reminded him of the public service campaign he had participated in the previous year called _It Can Wait_ ; at the time, even though he understood the importance of the message, he hadn’t truly grasped how alluring an incoming text could be. And as much as Jack missed Eric, as much as he needed to bolster his confidence and convey exactly how much he was looking forward to seeing him tonight, it _could_ wait. Even if it made the distance between the store and the parking lot feel like a hundred miles.

Jack was positive he’d get flack for his off center parking job later, but he didn’t care, snatching up his phone and hurrying to unlock it. The first few messages were Eric’s usual morning sentiment, the softly teasing innuendo that drove Jack the good kind of crazy and made him smile; he was smiling a lot these days.

 ** _Eric:_** _Good morning beautiful_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Whoops wrong number_

Jack snorted. 

 ** _Eric:_** …

 ** _Eric:_** _Oh all right YES I think you’re beautiful. There’s a reason you made People Magazines 50 Most Beautiful People two years in a row_

 ** _Eric:_** _Frankly, I want to know who was voting all the other years you were alive and didn’t make the cut_

There was a long time break between this text and the next, clearly sent after Eric had left for his first class of the day.

 ** _Eric:_** _Fuck. There were all these people with cameras waiting for me once I got as far as Heritage Hall. I didn’t know what to do. They were yelling and flashes were going off and—excuse my French but—this obnoxious prick was screaming super inappropriate questions at me. I ran into the nearest building and I’m still here._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I missed my class_

Jack stiffened, quickly scanning the remaining texts, the last few being not from Eric at all, but an unknown number.

 **_Eric:_ ** _I can’t get back to the Haus. Every time I try to leave they surround me._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I called Shitty_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Okay Shitty is almost here. He’s going to ninja kick our way through_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Just kidding (I think)_

Jack almost hoped Shitty beat the hell out of whatever indiscriminate piece of trash dared to jump Bitty on his way to class.

 ** _Eric:_**   _Ok we got through. Shitty brought reinforcements. Sort of._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Not to sound ungrateful! But campus security came and said as long as those cretins stay on the road, they’re not violating any university ordinances  So they just forced them into the only place between ME and the HAUS_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Maybe I shouldn’t come tonight_

Jack was overwhelmed with a sickening combination of panic and despair. He needed Eric there tonight—gorgeous and smiling and _his_. He hadn’t seen him in person in more than three days, and it didn’t matter one whit to his psyche that they were, even now, hardly one full week into this relationship. Hell, Jack was the only one officially calling it a relationship!

Jack used every focus technique he had ever learned in therapy to hone in on what mattered: he wanted to play, on home ice, and he wanted to know Eric was there somewhere in the stands, and that later he would take him home; that he had the right to do that. Nevermind the still somewhat tangential idea of sex (although that held an obvious appeal all its own); in a few short days, Eric had become the benchmark Jack used to gauge the equilibrium of his life, and the days without Eric fell far short of the rest. Jack needed him here, and as he reread Eric’s messages, he was swamped with guilt. _This was his fault_. The press had seemed so genuinely easy going about Jack’s marriage after the initial hullabaloo, that he never once gave thought to Eric’s safety at Samwell, where he was alone and might face the backlash by himself—even though Gillian had warned Jack it could, and likely would, get very difficult.

Jack went cold when he recalled her warning that Eric could come under threat, and immediately dialed his number. It went to voicemail, and he redialed; voicemail again. Jack punched the steering wheel in frustration, before remembering the unknown number following Eric’s conversation. Scrambling, he opened his messages again.

 ** _1(339)420-3157:_** I have your boy. I feel legally obligated to advise you to come up with a backup plan for tonight or I’m not releasing my charge into your custody

 ** _1(339)420-3157:_** This is Shitty btw.

Jack called the number, sliding from the truck, needing out of the small, enclosed area, anxiety swelling again when the call went straight to voicemail.

 ** _Jack:_** _I’m at the arena. I’ll have someone waiting for him at the player’s entrance._

Jack swiped his security pass and entered the building, shifting his weight impatiently in front of the elevator bay, not trusting his legs to take the stairs. He might need his hands, and he wasn’t feeling particularly steady at the moment anyway.

 ** _Shitty:_** _I’m coming with_

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. _Good. I’ll make sure you have a pass._ He hesitated before asking the next question; he didn’t know Shitty at all, had barely exchanged a few sentences with him in Vegas, but he was one of Eric’s closest friends. The only facts Jack knew about him were that he was no longer at Samwell and now attended Harvard Law. He had been Eric’s teammate and Haus-mate, though, and Jack decided to go with his instincts for once and trust him.

 **_Jack:_ ** _How is he? Why isn’t he answering his phone?_

 **_Shitty:_ ** _Well. One of those jackasses knocked him to the ground and bye bye phone_

 **_Shitty:_ ** _He’s baked two pies and two dozen cupcakes (funfetti—my favorite). So I would say he’s mid-level stressing but dealing the best he can_

Jack felt some of the tension leave his shoulders; if Eric was back in the Haus, cooking, then maybe he was okay.

 **_Jack:_ ** _Is the baking a good thing?_

 **_Shitty:_ ** _Fuck shyeah. Are you in for a treat!_

 **_Shitty:_ ** _I shouldn’t tell you this, so you didn’t hear it from me_

Jack swallowed, nausea climbing his throat again.

 **_Shitty:_ ** _But he made you an apple pie because he read in one of those dumb articles on his wall that it was your favorite._

 **_Shitty:_ ** _In other words, he’s hopeless._

 **_Shitty:_ ** _Also—if you don’t take care of him I will murder you and dispose of your body so creatively they’ll never find all the pieces._

Jack had to take a moment to breathe, experiencing a very real and visceral reaction to someone, a stranger, acknowledging his responsibility for Eric’s safety and care.  It was an intoxicating mixture of pride and astonishment, laced with hefty dose of apprehension, and he had to wipe away a bead of sweat from his upper lip before he answered. _I’ve got this,_ he typed out, and _God_ he hoped that he wasn’t lying.

 _Thanks for looking after him,_ he added before tucking his phone into the side pocket of his dufflebag. He’d lost about three lives over the past twenty minutes and he was so keyed up all he wanted to do now was suit up and kick some ass.

_/ \\_

Jack didn’t kick any asses, and in fact made enough silly mistakes that Tater had taken to calling him _Rook_ again on the bench, same as when he really was a rookie and Tater was his unofficial mentor.

“Rook should get his pretty boy to locker room. Fix sore head with kiss.”

“Shut up, Tater,” Jack grumbled; the _last_ thing he needed was any up close and personal exposure to Bitty when he was trying to focus. He had been overcome enough when (despite his best intentions) he had scanned the crowd of blue and spotted him—in a Falconers jersey and sporting Jack’s number. _Jesus._

“Just sayin’,” Tater shrugged. “You have—” He tapped Jack’s helmet with his gloved fist. “Cotton.”

“It’s been a long day.” Jack shoved Tater’s arm away, but there was no heat behind it. There was _heat_ behind what he wanted to do to the Bruins’ defenseman who had been badgering him all night. Nothing as yet that crossed too far over the line—but he was definitely pushing, testing Jack’s resolve. He scowled when he felt Tater’s eyes on him. “What?”

Tater leaned close, grabbing Jack’s helmet-clad face with both hands. “I take asshole. You take puck.”

Thirdy leaned in with a fist, as did Marty and Poots, and Jack realized his team had been there all along. Waiting for a sign from him that he was ready for backup. He nodded at them and met their fists with a grin, exhaling the lingering uneasiness. “All right. Let’s do this.”

It was too late to put up a big score, but a win was a win sometimes, and Tater’s unbridled joy at being sent to the sin bin for a truly dirty hit on a certain d-man was worth more to Jack than points. At least tonight. 

He was able to bypass interviews and duck into the showers, surrounded by a team intent on shielding him from the press, much to the consternation of several of the more persistent reporters. It wasn’t Jack’s preferred technique for dealing with a media that had been more foe than friend at differing points throughout his career, but considering how Eric had been treated earlier, he really didn’t give a shit right now.

And then without warning, Eric was there, handed over by an fiercely determined Gillian, who ushered them from the arena before they had a chance to say goodbye to Shitty. They passed quickly through a group of astonished fans and into a shiny, dark SUV replete with a sufficiently imposing driver.

Jack exhaled when the door shut behind them. He took in Eric’s flushed face, his parted lips, his hands twisted in the hem of his jersey—all in the space a heartbeat—and then leaned down and kissed him, hoping Eric could feel even a fraction of how glad he was to see him.

“Well, hello there,” Eric gasped when they parted.

Jack smiled. “Hi.”

Tony, the driver, eased them into the exiting traffic and Eric frowned. “Do you always have a driver on game nights?”

Jack chuckled and shook his head. He tucked Eric safely under his arm, flush against his side, and snapped both of their seatbelts into place. “No, but after the day you had, I wasn’t taking any chances.” He squeezed him. “We can grab my truck tomorrow. It’ll be safe locked up in the lot.”

Eric’s eyes clouded over. “I’m sorry—”

Jack stopped him with a finger against his lips. “Don’t you dare apologize. _I’m_ sorry. I should have been there. You shouldn’t have to deal with that, not alone, and I promise. I’m going to take care of it.”

Eric’s expression turned mischievous. “You gonna walk me to class every day, Mr. Zimmerman? Be my bodyguard?”

“I might,” Jack said with a mock glare. He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Hey Tony, can you swing us by Providence Place?”

“Sure thing, Jack.”

 “Providence Place?” Eric frowned. “You want to go to the mall _now_? Aren’t you exhausted?”

“Yes, actually. But you need a new phone. And a laptop. And I need an ice cream cone.”

“Oh no.” Eric sat straight up, wiggling his way out from under Jack’s hold. “Tony, nevermind.”

“Tony—ignore all the cute little blondes I have stashed back here,” Jack smirked, manhandling Eric back under his arm. He grunted in satisfaction when Eric only resisted for half a second.

“There better only be one cute little blonde back here, mister,” Eric muttered. Then, “And you’re not buying me a laptop. _Or_ a phone. I have money Jack, I’m not—”

Jack silenced him by kissing him. It seemed the quickest way to get the result he was after.

“Let him spoil you, Mr. Bittle,” Tony offered from the front. “It makes him happy.”

Eric grumbled about _bossy assholes_ under his breath before sending a chagrined glance toward the driver. “Oh not you, Tony. And please, call me Bitty.”

“Bitty,” Tony nodded, winking at Jack in the rearview mirror.

“Fine,” Eric sighed, rolling his eyes at the silent exchange. “The laptop and phone, but _nothing_ else Jack Zimmerman. Tony—you are not to stop at _any_ car dealers.”

Tony’s laugh filled the SUV, full-bodied and contagious, and Jack couldn’t resist laughing  with him. “Fine,” he mimicked, rubbing his chin against Eric’s temple. “But can you make yourself scarce while Tony and I have our ice cream date? It would be awkward to have you loitering around.”

“Fuck you, Jack Zimmerman.”

Jack nudged his ear with his nose, giving in to the best kind of temptation and immediately following with his lips. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the fresh, summer scent of Eric’s shampoo. _He had waited for this all week._ “Deal,” he whispered.

“You, sir, are incorrigible.” But Eric shivered, and Jack could tell he was just as affected; Eric’s hand was gripping his thigh hard enough to bruise.

Providence Place was slowly emptying, edging near to closing time and filled predominantly with teens approaching curfew and last-minute shoppers. Which meant that Jack and Eric (and Tony, trailing several steps behind) were largely ignored.

It was fantastic. Jack held Eric’s hand as they strolled through the quiet mall. There wasn’t time for window shopping, but Jack almost wished there was; and he _hated_ shopping.

The Apple store was on the first floor, and Jack made Bitty choose—ignoring his quiet lamentations about the cost and his initial insistence that he could get by just fine with a tablet. “Is that in addition to the Macbook Air and iPhone I’m buying for you? Because if so, that’s good with me.” He grinned at the Genius who was waiting on them. “Add an iPad.”

“No, not an iPad! Jack!” Eric was very nearly wringing his hands, his face genuinely distraught, and Jack finally pulled him aside while the Genius and Tony pretended not to listen.

“Eric,” he said gently. “I’m not going a single day without talking to you. I don’t actually give a fuck what you buy. If you want a Dell—” he snorted at the Genius’ gasp of dismay—“Then we look at Dells. Just—pick one, baby. I want you to.”

Eric’s resolve held right up until he practically melted at the _baby._ “Okay,” he said shakily. Then he grabbed Jack by the back of the neck with both hands and hauled him down for a very thorough—and _very_ uninhibited—kiss.

After several seconds, Tony coughed delicately.

“Add two iPads,” Jack said, starry-eyed and breathless. “All rose gold.”

Eric grinned. “You’re blushing.”

Jack’s eyes were caught on Bitty’s lower lip, full and red and enticing. “You’re hot.”

“Guess I’m gonna need that ice cream, after all,” Eric said archly, sashaying over to the product displays. “Gotta cool my man down.”

The Genius, they discovered at checkout, had recognized Jack on sight, and Jack subsequently made a fan for life when he and Eric set all of the display backgrounds to a series of selfies of the two of them—pulling the Genius and Tony into a few.

Next stop was the Verizon store (third level) where Jack quickly added Eric to his plan, and then on to the food court, where Jack had a single scoop of mint chocolate chip and Eric had two scoops of strawberry (Tony had peanut butter cup).

They left the mall with their loot, the three of them leaning against the side of the SUV, cones dripping, as the parking lot emptied.

Jack yawned before shoving the last of his treat into his mouth.

Eric smiled at the driver. “Tony, I think it’s past time to put this one to bed.”

“I hope to fuck that was an innuendo.” Jack yawned again.

“Jack!”

Tony’s bark of laughter was followed by the _beep_ of the doors unlocking, and they piled into the back, eager to face the end of this very long and sometimes complicated day.

Jack, Eric snuggled into his side, was asleep before they ever hit the highway.


	13. Better than Crossfit

Once inside the apartment building, Jack let Eric lead him to the bank of elevators, throwing a casual wave to Tiny the doorman. When the doors closed, Eric fussed over his tired eyes, rubbing circles into his temples and whispering nonsense about baths and bed and sleep. Jack’s hands were full of shopping bags, so he used the only leverage he had left—his full body weight—to push Eric into the wall to convey that the _bath_ was a great idea but he could sleep when he was dead.

He scooped the arm with the lightest package around Eric’s butt and hoisted him upward, grunting happily into his mouth when Eric caught his lead and wrapped his legs around his waist.

It wasn’t _that_ much different than his weekly Crossfit sessions, Jack thought, as he carried all of his packages (Eric included) to his door. He squatted just enough to let Eric take care of the lock, thighs nicely burning.

“Sadist,” Eric mumbled against his mouth.

Once inside, Jack dropped the bags and kicked the door shut, freeing his arms to do more important things. He managed to stagger them blindly down the hall (Eric had Jack’s face between his hands and was kissing the _life_ out of him), through the bedroom, and then into the adjoining bath. He didn’t break the kiss until he started to feel lightheaded, smiling at an imaginary headline: _NHL Star Sidelined by Sex Injury._

“What are you grinning at?” Eric gasped when Jack let go of his hips to rip the Falconers jersey over his head; he had to squeeze his thighs around Jack’s waist extra hard just to remain in place.

Jack nipped at a pale, heart-shaped freckle on the curve of Eric’s shoulder before answering. “I was thinking about quitting my job and staying in bed with you for the next twenty five years.”

Eric dragged his fingers through Jack’s hair, smile growing, wicked and slow. “I might be coerced.”

“Yeah?” Jack leaned into the touch and closed his eyes; no one had played with his hair in years, not since his mother when he was small.

“Yeah. You like that?” Eric scratched harder, pushing at the taut tendons along the back of Jack’s neck. He kissed him lightly on the lips. “Let me down, handsome. I’m going to run us a bath. And then I’m going to wash your hair.”

Jack was glad he was leaning against the counter, or the resulting full body shudder from Eric’s words might have been disastrous. Eric slid to the floor and padded over to the huge garden tub in the corner, a lavish addition Jack had had installed in this bathroom when he bought and remodeled the apartment. He had imagined almost this exact scenario—a long, hot bath after a game,  strong underwater jets soothing his tired muscles—but his imagination had never included someone like Eric to share it with.

Now it seemed as though all of his daydreams involved Eric in one form or another. Even simple tasks like grocery shopping were accomplished with a running Eric Bittle commentary in his head. Jack smiled at the enchanting display he currently made, his backside—small and tight and so perfect Jack could cry—dangling over the tiled edge of the tub as he tested the water. Jack tore his gaze away and opened the linen cabinets, retrieving two big, fluffy white towels and kicking off his shoes. He already had his fly half undone when Eric glanced over his shoulder and _tsked_ at him.

“Stop right there, mister. That’s my job.”

Jack grinned and held up his arms in surrender. He was a reckless mix of exhausted and turned on, and a shirtless, shoeless Bitty on his knees, face flushed pink from the rising steam—well, Jack was only human. He tossed the towels to the sink and crooked his finger. “Come and get it then.”

Eric smirked and rose easily, thighs flexing visibly in the tight denim and making Jack’s mouth water. He was in front of him in a flash, hands skipping over any pretense of restraint and shoving under Jack’s tee. They were warm from the water, but Jack gasped at the contact anyway, ending quickly on a moan when Eric scraped at his nipples.

“You’re so tired you’re about to collapse, and _fuck_ it’s been a long day,” Eric murmured, hands trailing to Jack’s waist and tugging him across the floor. He was nimble—far more nimble than Jack was under the circumstances—navigating the room backwards, easily gauging the distance to the edge of the tub. “But I—” He tipped up on his toes and kissed him, lingering long enough to slip his tongue between Jack’s lips before darting away again. “I want you.” He started unbuttoning Jack’s pants, glancing up with a serious expression. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Jack choked out. “Fuck, Bitty, _yes._ ” _I want you too. Say it, you fool._

Eric palmed the front of his jeans, squeezing lightly. “Good.” He had them both stripped naked and lowered into the heated water before Jack’s head worked its way out of a death spiral. He never even had a chance to feel self-conscious, although having spent most of his life in hockey locker rooms, traditional modesty had flown out the window years before. Still, it was different when you wanted to please, and be pleased by, another’s body. And Jack desperately wanted both.

The tub was easily big enough for two; maybe Jack had had more prescient daydreams than he remembered. To his consternation, when Eric slipped in, he did so behind him, fitting himself against Jack’s back. Jack had wanted to take care of _him_ , relieve _Eric’s_ stress from his awful day, but at the first touch of fingers in his hair, he was lost, moaning in pleasure at the impromptu massage. “ _Bits._ ”

“Good, huh?” Eric kissed the back of his neck, pushing at his shoulders. “Duck under so I can wash your hair.”

Jack took a breath and did as he was told, maybe a little too enthusiastically because he sloshed a tiny tidal wave of water over the rim, but Eric laughed so it was okay.

“Leave _some_ water to cover the family jewels, hockey boy,” Eric said against his ear. “There will be no wilting from the cold until I’m done.”

Jack didn’t even bother nodding; there was no possible way that was going to be an issue. He was so hard it was going to be that distinctive combination of pleasure and pain when Eric finally put his hands on him. It was a heady bliss, and he closed his eyes as shampoo was carded through his hair. Eric worked it into a thick lather, chattering softly about the game, chirping lightly about Jack’s lack of accuracy until the final minutes.

“Were you, um, _distracted_ by anything? Or anyone, perhaps?”

“Mmmm,” Jack shrugged, head lolling back and bumping Eric’s chin. _Cheeky little shit._ “The Bruins’ right wing is hot as fuck.”

“Jack Laurent Zimmerman!” Eric twisted his fingers into his hair and pulled.

Jack chuckled, the water making all his muscles lax and warm; he could stay here forever. “You asked, pie boy.”

“Pie boy,” Eric said indignantly, pushing at him again. “Rinse. And be quick about it before I decide to drown you for being a jerk.”

Jack ducked under and Eric’s fingers scrubbed the suds from his hair. When he popped above the surface, he shook like a dog, earning a happy squeal in response.

“Ass!”

“Me?” Jack snuggled back against Eric’s chest, smiling when two hands came around to hold him tight. “I’m not the one who made cupcakes and _apple pie_ for people not my husband.”

“Jesus. If you weren’t so stacked, I really would drown you,” Eric muttered, running his fingers up and down Jack’s hard-earned abdominals; Jack had never been so grateful for the brutality of his trainer. “And I’m going to _kill_ Shitty.”

Jack tipped his head back, liking the way their cheeks slotted together, one scruffed, one smooth. “Where’s my pie, Bitty?”

Eric kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shitty has it in his car, you big baby. It was supposed to be a surprise. He was going to drop it off tomorrow before I go back to Samwell.”

Jack frowned. “What do you mean when you go back to Samwell? I thought you were staying here this weekend.”

“Oh _my,_ would you look at that.” One of Eric’s hands came up to tweak at Jack’s bottom lip. He craned around and kissed him again, the angle wonderful if far more awkward than the movies made it seem. “Now stop pouting. I can’t stay. I have a game tomorrow at seven.”

Jack continued to scowl, even as Eric’s hands went back to roaming over the planes of his stomach, trailing closer and closer to the place Jack needed them most. “I had plans.”

“Did they involve this?” Eric lightly bit into his earlobe while one fist slipped around him and squeezed.

Jack’s breath was unsteady, labored, and he had to close his eyes. “Maybe.”

Eric’s hands slid easily through the warm water, stroking Jack lightly enough to make him twitch. “How about this?”

_“Bitty.”_

“Mmm?” Eric bit his earlobe again and then sucked it into his mouth. “Ahhh, Jack,” he crooned. “You feel so, so good.”

Jack was gripping Eric’s thighs now, tightly anchored into the cradle of his lap, the generous tub still not quite big enough to provide him room to move; not that he wanted to be anywhere else. He options were to lie there and take what Eric gave him, or drag them bodily from the tub and assume control, and he was more than happy with the current leadership. He realized that he hadn’t responded when Eric chuckled against his ear.

“God, you’re beautiful like this. I need a big old poster of _this_ at the foot of my bed, _damn._ ”

“Eric,” Jack panted, finally scrambling together enough brain cells to reach for his wrist. He wanted to cry when Eric stopped, waiting for direction, and his body jerked in dissatisfaction. “You. I can’t touch you like this—”

“Shhh,” Eric shushed, wriggling his arm free. “Let me take care of you.” He scratched at Jack’s nipple with his free hand. “Tit for tat, remember?”

Jack’s answering laugh was breathless and strained, hips moving restlessly as Eric played him as elegantly as any instrument, drawing out Jack’s pleasure to the very cusp of his tolerance before denying his release with murmured apologies that Jack didn’t fully believe. He was putty in his hands and the water was starting to cool when Eric finally took him to the edge and with a gentle kiss against his cheek, pushed him over.

It took Jack several long, steadying breaths before he fully came back into any semblance of awareness, his headspace cotton candy sated and so, so damned peaceful he could sleep for a week. He turned his face into the crook of Eric’s neck as he continued to pet him, trying to process a level of intimacy that was nearly devastating.

Jack wouldn’t have changed even one second.

“Budge up, sweetheart so I can get out.” Eric’s fingers were still dancing over his dick, feathery and light, and Jack gave serious thought to his refractory time.

“Don’t want to,” he mumbled, then huffed at the slur in his words. “You broke me.”

 “Good.” Eric sounded inordinately proud and Jack chuckled tiredly.

“I’m buying you _two_ cars.”

Eric wiggled behind him with a snort. “I’d take two blow jobs instead. If you would _let me out._ I’m freezing my balls off _._ ”

“Fine.” Jack reluctantly sat forward, shivering as the chill set into his damp skin. The view of Eric’s pert little bottom climbing into the shower gave him the energy to stand, and he sloshed more water over the edge.

“You’re making a mess,” Eric warned, ducking under the hot spray. He cut a pretty figure behind the steamy glass as the shower door swung closed, proving to be the last spike of motivation Jack needed to actually use his legs. He slid in behind him with another shiver, taking a moment to appreciate their size difference. There was something about the way his arms fit _just so_ around Eric’s midsection, and the way Eric’s head tucked so perfectly under his chin; they shouldn’t _fit_ and yet they did, and it was a marvel to think that they had almost never met.

He grabbed the shampoo from Eric’s hands with a grin, working the lather into a blonde faux-hawk and humming Elvis.

Eric flipped around to face him, tilting his head as he caught the song. “You’re just a giant marshmallow, Jack Zimmermann. _That_ is the real tabloid story.”

“Am not.” Jack thrust his voice as low as it would go. He smeared a creamy dollop of suds on the tip of Eric’s nose.

“Are too,” Eric huffed. “Jack Zimmermann, likes long walks on the beach, bubble baths, and ice cream cones.” He yelped when Jack grabbed him and rubbed a beard burn into the crease of his neck.

“And hockey.” Jack kissed the reddened skin.

“And hockey,” Eric nodded up at him with a laugh. His Mohawk was already droopy; he still looked adorable.

“And you.” Jack’s eyes fell to Eric’s mouth, humming again when he leaned up to meet him halfway. It was sweet, but Jack was fully recovered and now he wanted more. He ran his nose along Eric’s jaw, nibbling at the hinge. “You warm enough? I owe someone a blow job, and these old knees aren’t made for tile.”

“Pansy,” Eric clucked his tongue sadly, shrieking in laughter when Jack threw him over his shoulder, turned off the shower, and carried him naked, wet, and dripping into the bedroom.  

They did sleep, eventually.

Jack’s last conscious thought, with a blonde curl tickling his chin, was that he had never in his life been this happy.


	14. The Last Goat Roper in the West

Jack blinked awake at a quarter to seven; he had forgotten to set an alarm. He smiled down at Eric, wrapped around him from knee to chest, probably driven close by the chill in the room. He gently pressed his hand on the top of his head, flattening the crazy waves.

Eric mumbled in his sleep before rolling to his back, throwing one arm over his head.

Jack took a moment to admire him, fully intending to cover him with the blankets they had kicked off at some point in the night. He didn’t remember much about the first time they had been together, and in the times they had fooled around since it had mostly been through a less than perfect webcam in a darkened room. He hadn’t ever been able to just… _enjoy._

He felt a little like a voyeur, but decided Eric probably would do the same if their positions were reversed. In fact, Jack could totally get on board with his own three foot poster of a naked Eric hanging at the foot of _his_ bed. He grinned imagining the way Eric would blush and go into immediate denial mode if he said so. For all that he was a sassy little thing, he had yet to grasp the fact that Jack was fucking _gone_ on him.

Jack needed to remedy that.

His expression turned thoughtful. They had agreed to be friends, and then they had proceeded to do everything else beyond mere friendship at what felt like supersonic speed. Not that he was complaining. But the fact that they hadn’t talked about it, about _this,_ was driving him a little bit crazy. _Did Eric sleep with all of his friends?_ Jack’s heart thumped double time for a few beats and he had to do a quick deep breathing exercise to find his equilibrium again. Obviously, he didn’t really believe that, but…the _just friends_ was Eric’s idea. Why had he said it and then proceeded to not just ‘ _test the water’_ but jump in naked and with both feet?

Jack hoped that Eric knew how much he was on board with everything they had done so far; it felt like he did, but Jack also knew better than to second guess someone else’s emotions. He’d learned the hard way, with Kent, that he should never take anything for granted.

Jack’s need to know, to understand where everyone stood—at all times—had driven subsequent potential partners away. He needed clarification, but he didn’t want to push Eric away. Even this early in the whatever they weren’t calling this yet was, the thought of losing him bloomed sharp and painful in the center of Jack’s chest, and he recognized the feeling, in the same way he absolutely _didn’t_. It was the rush of first love and the fiery heat of sexual attraction, but it was also laughter and the first person he wanted to talk to every morning, and the last person he thought of before he fell asleep at night.

That was new. Different.

Jack didn’t want to feel this way alone.

Eric slept on, while Jack’s head muddied and cleared, his shallow breathing evident in the movement of his torso. Jack rubbed his cheek against the soft cotton of his pillowcase while he watched him. Eric’s skin still held the remnants of a summer tan, of long hours spent in the sun, and although he was compact, he was also deliciously proportional. His body showed evidence of years of training and athleticism, and quite unexpectedly, Jack longed to see him skate.

Maybe he could go to his game tonight, incognito. Jack laughed to himself; that was almost certainly impossible, but maybe if he called Gillian she could somehow make it happen. He wondered where he could get a Samwell t-shirt, and what number Eric played under. Suddenly it became important, in a way so few things had been important to Jack since his years with Kent, that he show Eric all the ways he was committed. As friends—but also more, a lot more. Forever kinds of more.

_Was he crazy?_

Jack teased the words on his tongue, rolling them around and mouthing them silently at the gorgeous, golden boy asleep in his bed. It was too soon to utter them, he knew that, but it didn’t make them any less true, not for Jack. He had never been one to do things half way. He should be terrified, but instead he felt exhilarated. He wanted to call his parents, Eric’s parents, the whole world. He wanted to stand in front of everyone he knew and loved and do it right this time, claim this boy forever and make sure they understood—there was no one else for him.

He needed to go for his run; he was top heavy with raw emotion and his body was used to an early morning release. The endorphins would probably do him good, bring him down a notch so he didn’t scare Eric with the intensity of everything he was feeling. Instinctively he knew that Eric wasn’t quite there, not yet. Maybe it was the age difference, or the life experience. Maybe it was something else entirely. But he would get there, God willing, and when he did, Jack would be waiting.

He ducked to press his mouth, open and damp, against the sharp ridge of muscle low on Eric’s stomach. Eric squirmed with an angry murmur, then patted Jack’s head with a sigh and flipped over onto his side, burrowing into the pillow.

 _I love you,_ Jack thought, concentrating the words on the narrow wings of Eric’s shoulder blades, in the region of his heart.

_I love you._

_/ \\_

“And then I said, _No Mama, we are not flying home next weekend for a bar-b-que at MooMaw’s. Coach’ll still be pretending none of this ever happened and Aunt Midge would sneer and Cousin Paul would pretend he’s not looking at Jack’s ass and then I’d have to beat some damn fool sense into him, and frankly, Mama, I’m not ready._ And then she sighed and said _Fair enough._ ” Eric, clad only in his t-shirt and boxers, was sitting on the countertop, waiting for the oven timer to go off (Jack had requested mini-quiche again, via a sticky note he had stuck to the bathroom mirror).

Jack was leaning against the opposite cabinetry, listening to him ramble, getting lost halfway through the story because Eric’s tiny shirt kept riding up on one side, tantalizing him with glimpses of glowing fresh skin. He downed what was left of his water bottle and reached out to tug on one of Eric’s outstretched legs (what kind of hockey player pointed their toes that elegantly?), giving in to temptation and slotting himself between Eric’s thighs.  “So they’re okay?”

Eric wrinkled his nose. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”

“Yes I did.”

“Name three things.”

Jack pinned Eric’s hands to the counter and dipped to kiss the side of his neck. “MooMaw wants to feed me.” _Kiss._ “Mama Bittle wants to show off her new son-in-law.” _Kiss._ He pressed down on his hands a little harder when Eric tried to squirm away.

“ _Jack._ ”

Jack smiled against the soft curve of his throat. He sucked at his pulse point there, hard enough to discolor the skin. _That was allowed right_? Newlyweds might mark each other up, stake their claim. And Jack didn’t want there to be any question in the Samwell Men’s Hockey locker room tonight that Eric was most assuredly _taken_. He kissed the faint bruise and straightened with a grin. “And Cousin Paul wants my hot bod.”

Eric lifted one brow. “Ya ‘bout done?” He wiggled again, testing Jack’s grip.

“If I’m not, what are you gonna do about it, squirt?” He chuckled at Eric’s exaggerated eyeroll; his color was high enough Jack could tell he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended. He bent down to nuzzle him again, nibbling a collarbone, then lower to his stomach, just above his navel.

 _“Jack Zimmerman—_ ” Eric gasped, hands fisting under Jack’s when he went even lower, mouthing him through the fabric of his boxers.

It wasn’t exactly what Jack had planned on having for breakfast, but—

The timer went off and Eric kneed him in the chest. “Oh, _God_ , sorry sweetheart.” His voice cracked, and Jack laughed against his thigh, forehead resting on a surprisingly soft dusting of hair as he counted backwards from ten.

Eric combed his fingers through his hair and Jack shivered; he hadn’t even noticed he’d let go of his hands. “Better let me up or your quiche is gonna burn.”

Jack sighed and stood, pointing one finger sternly at Eric when he started to jump down. “No.” Then he turned off the timer and used a pretty checked oven mitt (which he was ninety-five percent certain he hadn’t owned before today) to remove a tray of white ramekins from the oven. He set them on top of the stove and turned back to find Eric watching him fondly, arms hugging his chest. “What?”

“Oh nothing, just taking a page from Cousin Paul’s playbook and admiring the view.”

“Damn straight,” Jack grinned, slapping two mini quiche onto one of the plates Eric had placed beside the oven. He grabbed silverware and a napkin before resuming his place between Eric’s legs. He sliced a bite off the first quiche with the fork, lightly blowing on it. When he held it up to Eric’s mouth, there was a subtle shift in his expression, so quickly shuttered that Jack almost missed it—his pulse skipped a beat when he recognized it as fear. On impulse, he waved the fork in a looping motion and growled out a really terrible representation of a plane’s engine.

Eric snorted. “Jack Zimmerman, did you just try to choo-choo feed me?”

“It was a plane,” Jack corrected, tone chiding, unable to resist sneaking a quick kiss.

“Mmm,” Eric smacked his lips. “Not _that’s_ delicious.”

Jack chuckled and ate the forkful of egg himself.

“Hey! That was my bite.”

Jack shrugged. “You snooze you lose.”

Eric clamped his legs around Jack’s hips and pulled him closer (his muscular thighs were the stuff of Jack’s dreams), and growled, “Gimme.”

“Now who’s pouting.” Jack held the plate aloft, shoveling in two more bites in quick succession, laughing when Eric changed his approach, smiling coyly and batting his lashes. “I can’t be swayed by sex, Bits.”

“Fine,” Eric sighed, sucking on his lower lip while simultaneously stretching both arms high overhead. His ankles were still anchored just above Jack’s butt, giving him enough leverage to arch his back so prettily Jack almost dropped his fork. “Is it hot in here?” Eric murmured, peeling the t-shirt over his head in in a slow-motion striptease that had Jack swallowing convulsively, mouth gone dry.

“Bittle,” Jack warned, breaking off on a groan when Eric lowered himself to the counter, writhing just enough against Jack’s hips to make him see stars. He dropped the plate on the countertop with a _thunk_ and slid both hands under Eric’s ass.

Eric swung upward so quickly, Jack had to jump back to avoid being smacked in the face. Between one blink and the next, Eric had the plate of quiche sitting on his lap, calmly eating a mouthful of eggs.

“You’re a cocktease,” Jack scowled, reaching down to rearrange himself. _Fuck._

Eric shrugged, carefully cutting the quiche into dainty bites. “If you’ll take off those pesky clothes and meet me in the bedroom in five, I think I can change your mind about that.”

Jack considered him, then the plate, and then him again—before sauntering toward the bedroom, clothes falling to the hardwood in his wake. “Bring the quiche.”

Eric’s bright laughter followed him all the way down the hall.

_/ \\_

 “Okay, seriously, get _off._ I can’t have any more sex today, you monster.”

Jack snorted sleepily; he was going to need another shower. He could feel the strange stickiness of mingled sweat, stray eggs, and someone’s _very_ good morning coating his skin. “You started it.”

“Oh no I didn’t, Mr. Zimmerman.”

Eric pushed at his shoulder in vain but Jack didn’t budge; he was comfortable. Eric’s chest was his new favorite place to rest his head, because he never failed to play with Jack’s hair and he smelled like Christmas morning. Plus Jack could wrap one arm clear around him, hold him so close it felt like he never had to let go. “Yes you did,” Jack retorted belatedly.

“You’re the one that pinned me to the counter,” Eric sniffed. “I can’t help it if I have a kink.”

Jack peered blandly up at him through one eye. “ _You_ have a kink? You don’t say.”

Eric swatted at him, blushing hard. “Hush you.”

Jack chuckled, giving him a squeeze. “I’m not complaining. You can ride me like the—what was it you said? The last goat roper in the west?—while feeding me by hand any time you want, baby.”

Eric covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God, I am _so_ going to hell.”

“As long as there’s quiche,” Jack quipped.

Eric snorted and swatted him again.

Jack propped his chin on one hand, watching Eric closely. “Do you really believe that?” He asked after a quiet beat.

Eric tilted his head. “What?” He brushed the hair away from Jack’s forehead, his smile so soft it hurt. 

“That this is a sin?” Jack had been raised Roman Catholic, although he had never considered himself particularly religious. He didn’t care about the opinions of those who denied nontraditional forms of love, and he couldn’t imagine Eric did either.

“I think _you’re_ a sin.” Eric cupped Jack’s face, grunting in frustration when Jack didn’t immediately lean up for the offered kiss.

Jack obliged with a smirk. “So are you,” he whispered against Eric’s mouth before he kissed him again. It was tender, and achingly familiar. It felt like everything _right_ —the perfect goal, a spring day, the soft colors of a sunset. Jack had to swallow back the words this time, hovering there on the edge of his tongue.

“Okay, handsome. Let me up for real this time. I have to shower and call Shitty.”

Jack’s groan was heartfelt. “The only good thing about any of this is that I get pie.”

Eric had slid out from under him and was already halfway to the bathroom. “You’ve had like four orgasms, you spoiled baby. That’s gotta count for something.”

“I don’t know if I’d rank orgasm above pie,” Jack said thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating a nap. He grunted in surprise when a pillow flew across the room and hit him in the face. “Watch the profile!” He groused. “I’m People Magazine’s Most—”

He sputtered against a second, well-aimed pillow. “Nice arm.” He tucked the pillows under his head and chuckled to himself. That arm, those thighs…yeah, he was definitely sneaking in to watch the Samwell Men’s Hockey team play tonight. He glanced down at the sickly green hue of his ring finger with a slow smile.

He should get up too, run a few errands this afternoon. Eric had a way of doing all of these sweet, thoughtful things for _Jack_ , effortlessly making him happy in a way that was as unexpected and confusing as it was cherished. Maybe Jack could reciprocate, step one in his master plan to woo his husband.

He turned the cheap ring around and around on his finger, thinking. He could be spontaneous (as much as the mere word made him twitchy). He squared his shoulders; _he_ _could_. In fact, if it was for Eric, Jack thought he could survive just about anything.

Even shopping.


	15. Number 15 is Hot

Jack tried no fewer than fourteen times to talk to Shitty alone after he arrived, all to no avail. He finally gave up and texted him, even though he was sitting directly across from him at the dining room table.

 **_Jack:_ ** _Help me. But shh._

Shitty read the message before looking at Jack like he had lost his mind.

Frustrated, Jack tried again. _I want to come to the game tonight, but I don’t want him to know._

Understanding dawned and a smile lit Shitty’s face.  _Sure bro. What can I do?_

 ** _Jack_** _: I need a seat?_ Jack bit his lip and went for broke. _And a Samwell t-shirt? With Bitty’s number?_

Shitty grinned, fingers flying over his phone.

“What are you two grinning at. Are you talking about me behind my back?” Eric set Jack’s refilled water glass beside his plate and dropped onto his lap.

“Someone’s conceited,” Jack teased, hands automatically gravitating to Eric’s waist. He hoped he didn’t look down at the table; his phone was face up and Shitty’s last message was clearly visible.

 **_Shitty:_ ** _I got you. Meet me in the parking lot at 6._

“You mean I’m _not_ the center of the universe?” Eric quipped, tossing his head. “One of y’all better tell my mama.”

“I would never,” Jack said solemnly. “Although if your mama ever met mine, there might be trouble, seeing as Alicia Zimmermann thinks _I’m_ the center of the universe.”

“That’s only because she hasn’t met me yet,” Eric winked.

“I’m going to hurl.” Shitty muttered, banging his phone on his forehead in a series of rhythmic _thumps._

“Oh Shitty, you’re just jealous.” Eric said pityingly. He threw an arm around Jack’s neck and squeezed. “You want me to find you a nice, rich hockey player, too, honey?”

Jack chuckled and pinched Eric’s ass. “Get off, you hussy, and get out of my apartment.”

Eric jumped up when he felt Jack’s fingers go in for a second grab, and then bent down to drop a kiss to his lips. “ _Our_ apartment, Mr. Zimmermann-Bittle.” He spun away before Jack had a chance to reply. “I’m going to get my bag,” he called over his shoulder. “So you two can finish talking about me like I’m not even here!”

Shitty grinned and shook his head. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Yes.” Jack’s reply was so quick and heartfelt, that Shitty blinked.

“Well. Damn.” He scratched behind his ear, considering Jack over the remains of the half-eaten pie.

Jack tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. “Is that all right?” He didn’t know why it mattered so much, but it did. He wanted the people in Eric’s life to like him, to welcome his new—if unconventional—place in their world.

Shitty’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know, I always did admire you. I followed your career, even back in the juniors.”

Jack stared. “Really?” He picked up his fork and then laid it down again; he wasn’t hungry anymore. “I hope the reality wasn’t a disappointment.” 

“Only your piss poor alcohol tolerance.”

“Hey!”

“Kidding, kiddng. Jack Zimmermann, despite your questionable taste in men—”

Jack snorted.

“I find you to be an upstanding dude overall,” Shitty finished with a wide smile and thrust his hand over the center of the pie tin. “Proud to welcome you to the family, bro.”

Jack huffed a laugh and shook his hand. “Thanks, man. Now, about tonight.”

They still had their heads tucked together, whispering, when Eric emerged with his overnight bag. “I have to say I don’t like the looks of this.”

“Jealous?” Jack winked over Shitty’s shoulder.

“No.”

But Eric was scowling, and Shitty laughed. “Bitty my dude, as much as the hockey fan in me would fucking _love_ to suck Jack Zimmerman’s dick,” he slapped Jack’s back so hard, Jack grunted. “This one’s only got eyes for you.”

“Thanks,” Jack muttered out of the side of his mouth. _So much for subtlety._

“Sure he does,” Eric waved him away. When the other two continued to stare, he rolled his eyes. “Shitty. I’m going to tell Jack goodbye now. Properly.” He pointed dramatically in the direction of Jack’s front door.

“Oh right, right.” Shitty cleared his throat and grabbed Bitty’s bag. “Keep it PG, boys. I don’t have all day. Jack,” he winked. “I’ll see you round.”

“Yeah,” Jack gave a little wave. “See you.”

When he was gone Eric put both hands on his hips and glared. “What are you two up to?”

Jack carefully schooled his expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He took two measured steps in Eric’s direction, the barest hint of a smile forming when Eric’s eyes widened.

“You do too know.” Eric backed away, unable to keep his grin in check as Jack stalked him across the room. His laughter bubbled over when Jack caught him in a lunge and they fell together onto the deep-cushioned couch. “Jack, wait!”

“I don’t want to wait,” Jack growled, dragging his stubbled chin down the side of his neck.

Eric shivered, then sighed when Jack kissed the abused skin. He wrapped his arms around him and squeezed. “I’m going to miss you.”

Jack had to take a steadying breath before he could lean back and meet his gaze. “I’m going to miss you too.” He hesitated before closing the gap between them, taking a moment to absorb the light in Eric’s eyes and the soft blush on his cheeks; it wasn’t _I love you,_ but it was pretty wonderful, and he wanted to remember. When they kissed, Jack thought about silly clichés and how maybe they weren’t so silly after all.

Eric nuzzled his nose into Jack’s cheek with a sigh. “Fuck me,” he whispered.

Jack snorted. _Moment over._ “Like now, or…?”

Eric swatted his shoulder with a grin. “No, like not literally but _literally._ ” His smile faded and he ran the tip of his index finger over Jack’s mouth. “How’d I ever get so lucky?”

Jack kissed the fingertip. “I think it had something to do with gold-label tequila.”

Eric pulled hard on a curl at the back of his head. “Smartass.”

Jack shivered. “Don’t turn me on right before you leave, Bits.”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Eric screwed his eyes shut. “You are going to be the absolute literal death of me, Jack Zimmermann.” But he patted softly over Jack’s hair, and then wrapped his arms around his broad back again, just as Shitty thumped three firm knocks on the door. “God, I have to _go_.”

“Okay.” Jack rolled off and to his feet so fluidly that Eric made a show of fanning himself, laughing when Jack gave a little bow.  

“Skype tonight? After my game?”

“Yes. We need to christen our brand new web cams.” Jack pulled Eric off the couch and led him to the door, hands entwined. He wondered if Eric’s palm tingled with the strange warmth too.

“And by _christen_ you do mean introduce them to your dick, right?”

Jack shook his head in mock despair, cupping his free hand around Eric’s upturned face. “I thought Southerners were supposed to be genteel.”

“Southerners still have needs, Jack.”

Jack grinned. “My dick is a need?”

“Have you ever _seen_ your dick?”

“Oy! I can hear you!” Shitty yelled through the door.

Eric scrunched up his nose and pointed at Jack’s crotch. “Mine,” he mouthed. “Tonight.”

Jack opened the door and gave him a thumbs up, smile so wide his cheeks ached.

Eric stepped over the threshold and then spun back in a rush, grabbing Jack’s face in both hands and pulling him down into a filthy kiss _._

Shitty was still slow clapping when they got on the elevator, Bitty’s quick wink the last thing Jack saw before the doors slid closed.

_/ \\_

He was still smiling an hour later when he arrived at the first jeweler on his list, which meant the trip wasn’t nearly as awkward as it might have been otherwise. Jack wasn’t his best in crowds, interviews, or with salespeople. He had stopped at Mackadilly’s first because it was off the beaten path and was touted as the oldest family-owned jeweler in Rhode Island. It was important to Jack that whatever he chose be unique, not a mass-manufactured import of questionable quality. 

“Two rings?” Edward, the sales associate asked. He was an elderly gentleman, with neatly trimmed silver hair and pale blue eyes. Jack didn’t pay much attention to fashion, but he recognized quality tailoring and Edward was wearing it. “And both rings should be for a male?” He peered over the top of his glasses and Jack willed himself not to fidget; his fifth grade geography teacher used to look at him like that, right before calling on him for the answer.

“Yes. Matching male rings. Platinum, I think.”

“You think?” Edward turned away to study the rings lining the elegantly lighted case.

Jack swallowed. “I read that it was more durable than gold.” And he used his hands a lot, as did Eric.

“It scratches more than gold, as well,” Edward muttered, pulling a tray out of the case.

“But those can be polished away, right?”

Edward looked pleased with Jack’s response. “Yes. And if you prefer a white metal, I would highly suggest it over white gold.” He sniffed delicately. “Or silver, of course.”

“Of course. I want the platinum.” Jack’s face had been hot almost from the moment he had entered the shop, but as he sat down on the stool where Edward indicated, he thought maybe he was going to make it.

Edward turned the tray in Jack’s direction. “Diamonds?”

“Mmm,” Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure.” The rings were dazzling under the carefully aimed lights, but as his gaze focused, he was immediately drawn to one ring in particular. It was smooth and sleek, a platinum base with two black ribbons of metal and a channel of dark stones in between. “May I?” He pointed.

“Excellent choice,” Edward nodded. He removed the ring from its velvet bed and handed it to Jack. “Platinum band, with twin graphite inlays all around. Nine black diamonds, placed in triplicate in the channel between.”

“This one.” Jack had barely glanced at the blue velvet tray, and he had written down directions for three other shops on his list, but he already knew; this was the ring. It was chic yet solid, different—yet traditional in a way he knew would appeal to Eric.   

Edward didn’t argue, or try to convince him to browse the way most salespeople would have and Jack appreciated him all the more for it. After a discussion on sizing, Jack gave his own ring size as well as an estimate on Eric’s—tickling Edward into a half smile when he quipped he was basing his guess on the science of handholding.

“I know it’s short notice, but is there any way I could have those this afternoon? I’m happy to pay for the inconvenience.”

Edward nodded, eyes twinkling. “The impatience of youthful affection is not lost on this old man. They will be ready for pick up at four o’clock.”

“Thank you.” Jack watched him disappear into the back, and he would have sworn he heard him muttering about _young love_ before the doors closed behind him. Jack grinned; one errand down and one to go.

_/ \\_

Faber Memorial Rink smelled like _hockey_ , and Jack felt immediately at home. Shitty, as planned, met him in the parking lot with a dark red Samwell Hockey t-shirt and a ball cap.

“Dude, you gotta disguise the—” Shitty waved his hand in front of Jack’s face.

Jack laughed and slapped his arm away. “I don’t know that a hat is gonna do it, Shits, but thanks.” He pulled the dark blue Henley he was wearing over his head and Shitty gasped. “What?”

Shitty held a hand over his heart, eyes closed. “You could warn a brother, geez.”

Jack socked him in the shoulder and shook out the Samwell tee, frowning at the back. “What’s this?” The number _15_ had been crudely applied with what looked like white stick tape.

Shitty shrugged. “What can I say? They were sold out of your boy’s number.”

Jack shrugged too. _C’est la vie._ Ball cap in place he locked his truck and exhaled a long breath. “Let’s do this.”

Shitty snickered at Jack’s determined expression. “It’s a hockey game, JZ, not jury duty. This—” He waved an arm to encompass the rink ahead. “Is your planet. And these are your people. Let’s see some excitement!” He held both fists over his head and whooped so loud the couple in front of them turned and shot him a dirty look.

Jack chuckled. “I _am_ excited. And thanks.” He bumped Shitty with one shoulder as they approached the front steps. “For the hat. And everything.”

They jogged up the steps, bypassing the ticket window since Shitty already had season passes. “You watch the vids I sent?”

Jack grinned, ducking his head when he noticed a girl by the ladies room staring. “I did.” Shitty had sent him links to a dozen SMH hockey videos featuring plenty of airtime for number 15.

“And what did you think.”

Jack feigned nonchalance. “Not bad.”

Shitty snorted. “Uh huh. He’s crazy fast, and tiny enough to slip through cracks that lesser mortals can’t.”

Jack shook his head with a grin. “Not gonna lie; the first thing I thought was that I could use him on my line.”

Shitty nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what I keep telling him. But he’s bound and determined to do his thing. Hockey’s _for fun._ ” He air quoted for emphasis.

Jack followed Shitty up the stairs and into the balcony seating. “He’s small, but there are small guys in the game. He’d need to bulk up.” He almost ran into Shitty’s back when he froze on the step above him.

Shitty turned and stared. “Are you being serious?”

Jack wavered, unsure how to read Shitty’s expression. He wasn’t an expert conversationalist in the best of times, but he had let his guard down because they were talking about hockey. Had he somehow misspoke? “About bulking up?” He asked cautiously.

“No, not about that.” Shitty rolled his eyes. “You think he’s good enough to play. With you.”

Jack relaxed. “I mean, I’ve only seen tape. But yeah. I’d play with him.”

Shitty’s carefree laughter drew the attention of several people seated near them. “I knew I liked you,” he grinned. A few minutes later he stopped again. “Fuck. That was the perfect opportunity for a well timed innuendo and I fucking missed it.”

Jack tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Shut up, you handsome fucker.” Shitty shoved him toward the concession. “Just for that, the first beer’s on you.”

Jack glanced around in surprise. “They sell beer?”

“Shyeah! How do you think they paid for this remodel?” Shitty laughed.

Two beers and two periods later, Samwell was up by one and Jack was fairly certain his cover was blown. Possibly by his enthusiasm whenever Eric did something amazing (two assists!) or by his and Shitty’s exuberant bonding over a few truly terrible calls.

It might also have been the giant white _15_ taped to his back.

Whatever it was, by the second intermission, the back of his neck was prickling from the marathon of people parading by their seats, and more than one cameraphone pointed in his direction. 

“Do we acknowledge this, or?” Shitty asked out of the side of his mouth.

Jack sighed. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal. It’s Bitty’s night, not mine.”

Shitty kicked his feet up on the empty seats in front of them, snuggling into Jack’s shoulder. “Then we ignore it.” He peered up at Jack and batted his lashes. “But you are kind of a big deal.”

Jack snorted and shoved him back into his own seat. “You better check yourself lest the wrath of Bitty rains down upon you.”

“True that.” Shitty laced his fingers across his chest and yawned. “I’m, uh, heading to the Haus for the after party. You wanna come with?”

If the attention was this bad at the game, where the majority of people were sober, Jack didn’t want to imagine what it would be like when inhibitions were completely annihilated by a keg or two. “Uh, I think I’ll pass.” He nodded toward the girl making no bones that she was taking a video of him.

Shitty barely glanced in her direction before he stretched and twisted around so he was completely blocking her view of Jack. “Can’t say as I blame you, but the Haus guys are decent. They’d leave you alone. And chase off anyone who wouldn’t.” Shitty seemed to consider what he had just said. “Probably.”

Jack grinned at Shitty’s awkwardly stretched position. “You’re going to get a cramp.”

“What. I do pilates, twice a week.”

“Pilates?” Jack asked dubiously.

“Okay there’s a pilates studio next to my building and I _think_ about going.”

“Thanks, but really, it’s okay. So she puts me on twitter. Maybe I’ll do her a favor and retweet.”

“You don’t even have twitter,” Shitty laughed, but he sat back in his seat and dug out his phone. “Speaking of, however, I _do._ Selfie!” He leaned into Jack’s space and swapped the camera function around. Jack didn’t have time to smile, his brows drawn into a little frown in the shot. Shitty captioned it _NCAA refs are no joke!_ before tweeting it.

Jack had an out of body experience when he suddenly wished he could reply to it. Eric would see it, would know he was here, and somehow it became really important that he know how proud Jack was to be in the stands. Supporting him and his teammates. He opened his own camera app and Shitty cackled.

“Yes!”

“Just shut up and get over here.” Right before Jack hit the shutter button, Shitty planted a big wet kiss on his cheek. Jack grinned at the resulting picture and opened Instagram to post it.

“I think you should go with the real cheese. _Supporting the bae,_ ” Shitty cooed. “Hashtag besties!”

The end of intermission buzzer sounded just as he was finishing up. He tilted the phone in Shitty’s direction and received a grin and a nod of approval. _Number 15 is hot  #GoWellies_

The tempo of Jack’s pulse picked up when the hockey team took the ice for the last period of the game. In less than an hour, he would be with Eric.


	16. Bittle Butt is a Thing of Beauty

“Okay, so most of these guys are going to flip their shit when you walk in. So. Be prepared.” The petite brunette’s face was stern.

Jack’s first impression of Larissa ‘Lardo’ Duan was that she ran the Samwell men’s hockey team with an iron fist. (She reminded him a little bit of George.) He nodded, hoping to convey sincerity instead of the nerves that had appeared out of nowhere. Eric was just beyond that door and Jack was about to spring his presence on him without warning; his heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest. 

“You okay?” Lardo was watching him carefully.

“Yeah.” Jack swallowed down the swarm of butterflies. “I’m ready.”

“Lardo, c’mon,” Shitty cajoled. “Jack just took fourteen different selfies with half naked sorority chicks. He can handle a few fanboys.”

Lardo gagged. “They knew he was married, right? To a guy?”

Jack flushed. He’d wondered the same thing, but putting on a bland smile and accepting fan requests was so ingrained that his easy compliance had been rote.

Shitty shrugged. “Didn’t seem to matter. It was like they thought they could titty him straight.”

“I like boobs,” Jack muttered, rolling his neck; the tension was giving him a headache. Lardo and Shitty stared, mouths falling comically open, and he squirmed, defensive. “I like Bitty more.”

 Lardo grinned and wagged her finger. “Best to keep the boob thing to yourself. Bits is possessive as fuck.”

“Noted.” Jack steeled himself when she rapped on the locker room door.

“Contain yourselves children, you have visitors!” Lardo shouted over the noise that spilled into the hall when she flung open the door. It was celebratory music, laughter, and plenty of chirping, and Jack was a big chickenshit because at the last minute he shoved Shitty through first.

There was a mix of cheers and jeers when Shitty crossed the threshold and Jack ducked just in time to avoid a jockstrap to the cheek.

“Shits! Get your shaggy mane over here!”

“Shitty’s not a visitor!”

“Go home, Knight!”

Then Jack stepped into the room, and every member of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team froze.

Except one, who lit up like the fourth of July.

“Jack!” Eric launched himself at Jack from his perch near the door and Jack caught him, an armful of sweaty Under Armour and sunshine.

“Bits, you were amazing!” Jack laughed, hugging him so tight he nearly lifted him off the ground. His apprehension evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

Eric leaned back, his face openly delighted. “What are you even doing here?”

Jack was instantly bewitched by Eric’s post-game disarray—hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, cheeks flushed—and thought it had been a long, long time since he had seen anything so appealing. He wanted to kiss him, but a split second of indecision gave the hockey team time to revive and approach. He chucked him under the chin instead. “I was watching my boy kick Engineer ass.”

 Eric’s color deepened with the praise before nodding at the players forming a semi-circle around them. “I had a little help.” He grabbed Jack’s hand and squeezed, clearing his throat and facing the small crowd of half-dressed athletes. “Everyone, this is Jack Zimmermann. My, uh—” A strangled laugh escaped his throat. “My husband. Jack, this is everyone.”

Jack gave a little wave, finding it impossible to feel awkward under Eric’s beaming smile. “Hey. Good game.”

“Oh!” Eric clutched Jack’s arm to his side. “And Coach Hall!” He dragged Jack over to the coach, who was in high enough spirits to be amused by the spectacle that had overtaken his locker room.

“Jack.” Coach shook Jack’s hand, his grip firm and strong. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, son. You’re having quite the season.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack nodded. “Nice game tonight.”

Jack was then led around the room, introduced to the players he hadn’t met yet and trading hello’s with those he had. He turned to answer a question from the goalie, Chowder, giving Eric his first glimpse of the back of Jack’s shirt.

“Oh my God! What are you wearing?” Eric burst out laughing.

Shitty slung an arm around Eric's shoulders. “Listen when a man asks for the impossible—”

“The impossible?” Eric interrupted, head tilted in confusion.

“Bits, you know your number is always sold out.” Shitty ruffled his hair and cooed, “Our little hottie.” He laughed at Eric’s embarrassed flush. “Anyway. Jack insisted and who am I to interfere with the course of true love.”

Eric’s eyes were soft when he met Jack’s gaze, and Jack immediately lost his train of thought. He murmured an apologetic goodbye to Chowder and crossed the room, stopping in front of Eric’s locker space to watch him peel the undershirt over his head, counting the beats of his own heart. The nape of Eric’s neck was deeply pink, and Jack longed to put his mouth there, feel the heat of the skin braise his lips. When Eric bent forward to shove the shirt into his bag, the chain he wore swung forward, the pendant at the end glinting in the light.

It was a moment before Jack recognized it as Eric’s wedding ring and he blinked rapidly, overcome. When Eric straightened, Jack grabbed the ring and chain and tugged, forcing him closer. He studied the silly gold die in his palm to give himself time to recover, closing his fingers around it in a fist. “You’ll crack a sternum like this,” he said, voice rough with emotion.

Eric inhaled, quick and shaky, eyes falling to Jack’s mouth. “I tucked it into my pads.”

Jack rested the backs of his fingers on Eric’s chest, relishing the thrill that spiraled through him with the contact. They needed to get out of this locker room. Now. “Can you leave?”

“I’m disgusting,” Eric said faintly, swaying toward him until Jack’s hand stopped his forward momentum.

“I don’t care.” And he didn’t; even the sharp smell of Eric’s sweat was turning him on.

Eric visibly shook himself. “You’ll care when your truck smells like the inside of my cup.”

“I like what’s inside your cup,” Jack retorted quietly, glancing around them and hoping the slight edge to his voice wasn’t as terrifying to Eric as it was to him.

“I take it back, _you’re_ disgusting,” Eric whispered with a grin before coming up on his toes to press a quick kiss to Jack’s lips, the tiniest flick of his tongue a filthy tease. “And I’m solidly on board.” He spun away before Jack could pull him in for more. “Five minutes,” he promised with a wink.

Jack watched him until he disappeared around a corner.

“Bittle butt is a thing of beauty, am I right?” Shitty laid his head on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. “Eyes to the front, Shits.”

Shitty held up a three finger salute, mustache twitching with his smile.

_/ \\_

The crowd had mostly dispersed by the time they emerged from Faber, and Jack was relieved to see that despite the rash of selfies at the end of the game, his presence hadn’t attracted any undue attention from the more unscrupulous—and paid—photographers. Maybe Gillian and her team were right and the more Jack and Eric provided ‘private’ glimpses into their life together, the more steam they stole from the paparazzi engine.

He was also glad there were no cameras around for a more selfish reason: when they finally reached his truck, he could push Eric into the door and kiss him senseless without fear of prying eyes. Eric dropped his bag to the pavement in response, his answering moan shooting straight to Jack’s balls and exponentially increasing his need to be naked and horizontal.

“Bed. Now.” He bit at Eric’s mouth, his jaw, his neck, hot and getting hotter by the second, the clutch of Eric’s hands in his hair driving him insane.

“Too far,” Eric gasped, giving as good as he got and grabbing Jack’s ears to yank his face into a better angle.

Jack fumbled for his keys, lips never leaving Eric’s skin, thoughts spinning wildly out of control while he considered all of their options. The Haus was closest, but filled with post-game revelers, and Jack was no longer in the mood to play nice. The apartment was safest, but a tortuous 45 minutes away—and he nearly cried at the thought of waiting that long for release.

When he found the keys, the lock chirped—a garish and cheerful contrast to their labored breathing.

“Get in get in get in,” Eric chanted, pushing Jack toward the open door.

He did, forgetting to boost Eric up first, which compelled a very impatient hockey player to curse quite spectacularly before bounding in after him and straddling his lap—a horrible, awful, wonderful way to die. Jack fell so completely into the feel of Eric’s butt in his hands, that he blanked momentarily before refocusing what little leverage he had to more accurately align the slow roll of Eric’s hips with his own.

He had to bite his lip when Eric cursed again and tipped over onto the seat beside him.

“Fuck, start the car.” Eric scrambled for seatbelts, clipping first Jack’s and then his own, and he snorted when Jack sat unmoving. “Did I break you again?”

“Yes,” Jack breathed, considering the consequences if he threw caution to the wind and fucked him right there on the seat. How big could the fine actually be? It was a university campus. Surely—

“Jack.” Eric dug his fingers into his thigh. “Start the car.”

Jack closed his eyes and inhaled before turning the ignition. He held the lungful of air for a long beat before exhaling, relaxing infinitesimally as the truck began to move. “Where.”

Eric’s fingers stretched across the seat to graze the crease of his hip, so tantalizingly close to the bulge clearly visible in Jack’s jeans. “Ugh, I can’t reach, I want to touch you.” He started to remove his seatbelt and Jack caught his hand.

“No. Seatbelt on, I’m fucked up enough as it is.”

Eric’s startled laugh was contagious, and Jack grinned. The moment of levity dissipated a little of the tension, bringing his hunger down to a level that was less reptilian instinct and more fervent anticipation.

Eric caught his hand before he could pull it away, lacing their fingers tight. “Okay. But take a left up here. I know a place.”

“I don’t want to know how,” Jack grumbled, but he took the left.

It turned out to be brilliant, and tacky, and perfect—the alley behind Faber, complete with trash bins and a loading dock. It was dark and deserted, and Jack quickly cut the lights. He barely got out, “Are you sure?” before Eric was in his arms again, knees bracketing his hips on the seat.

He grunted, reaching between them to unlatch his seatbelt, sighing when Eric drew his hands back to his ass, encouraging him to _feel_. He squeezed, burying his face in the hollow of Eric’s sweet-smelling throat, thrilling at the responsive fluttering of the pulse under his mouth.

Erick shuddered against the first press of Jack’s lips on his skin, his strong thighs directing the movement of his hips at just the right angle to make Jack see stars.

“I’m going to come in my pants if you keep doing that,” Jack muttered, dragging his nose from the his chin to the tip of his ear. He smelled like institutional soap and cheap shampoo and Jack could eat him alive.

“Is that so terrible?” Eric gasped.

“ _Yes_.” Jack kissed him viciously then, riding a wave that nearly toppled him over the edge, and he fought desperately for control. He shoved one hand between them, ripping through first one fly and then the next, apologizing with his mouth for the roughness and the haste as he freed them, groaning anew when he finally cradled them both in his hand. Eric stilled, head thrown back when Jack thumbed over his leaking tip. He used the scant moisture to sweeten the drag of palm on velvet, watching Eric’s lashes flutter, eyes glazed, as he stroked them together. He bit back a hoarse grunt when, far too soon, he came first.

Eric moaned at the hot spurt of him, slick and messy _,_ and he buried his hands in Jack’s hair, resting their foreheads together. Jack slowed the rhythmic movement of his hand, ultra sensitive yet unwilling to stop with Eric so close. He was beautiful, trembling and tousled, lips kissed red and knees brazenly wide. He whimpered in frustration as it dragged on and on, his tiny _please, please_ chasing open mouthed kisses across Jack’s cheekbone.

When Jack felt him tense, he caught his lips, swallowing Eric’s sharp cry and then bringing him slowly back to earth with a gentleness that belied their former desperation.

 _I love you,_ he thought, coaxing a soft sigh from Eric’s throat as he cuddled him close. _I bought you something, a few somethings, I—_

“I’m starving,” Eric mumbled, face buried in Jack’s neck.

Jack laughed softly, setting aside the things he couldn’t say, putting Eric back together in all the ways he would let him. “I could eat,” he agreed.

Eric shivered and sat back, eyes dark and tender as he watched Jack tuck him inside his briefs and do up his jeans. “I don’t know what possessed you to come tonight. But I’m glad you did.” He slid a hand around Jack’s neck, thumb grazing his jaw.

Jack watched him closely, deciding the truth was simplest. “I missed you.”

There was a moment there, suspended, where Jack thought _this is it_. But then Eric wrinkled his nose and nodded toward Jack’s fingers, sticky and damp and resting on his thigh. “Drive through burger?”

Jack thought of the rings in his pocket, watched the moment slip away. “Deal.”

Ten minutes later they were waiting in line behind a VW bug at a McDonald’s when Jack felt a tug at his elbow. He glanced down to find an upturned palm on his seat. The fingers wiggled.

“Hold my hand, Mr. Zimmermann, I’m feeling romantic and squishy.”

Jack hid his grin. “I thought I was too messy.”

“Ah,” Eric pointed, _finger gun_ , then rummaged through his bag in the floor board. He resurfaced with a travel pack of wet wipes and a triumphant grin. “But your man is prepared.”

He carefully cleaned Jack’s hand, and it shouldn’t have been arousing, but he was so gentle and thorough that Jack found it hard to breathe.

“Thanks.” _Stay married to me._

“You’re welcome.” Eric shoved the used wipes into a pocket of his bag and sat back with a sigh. They waited in silent companionship until their food was ready, hands entwined between them. As they approached the exit, Eric asked, “My place or yours, handsome?”

Jack hid his wince, studying the steady stream of lights as cars passed them by; it was easier than looking at Eric. “Come home with me.” He wondered if it sounded as vulnerable as he felt.

Eric’s hand tightened around his. “Okay.” There was a beat of silence, then, “But don’t expect to get any sleep tonight, Mr. Zimmermann.”

 _There would be other moments._ Eric deserved more than a proposal over a cheap hamburger anyway.

Jack threw a grin across the seat. “No?”

“Nope.” Eric unwrapped a burger and leaned over to give Jack the first bite. He sighed with a smile and a shake of his head.

“What?” Jack rubbed his chin, searching for stray ketchup.

“Oh nothing, you have the most perfect bone structure. We are going to have the prettiest babies.”

Jack snorted to cover the rash of emotion clogging his throat. He was going to get whiplash from this beautiful, confusing boy. “I take it you haven’t had Biology yet.”

“Listen,” Eric began. “I read this article last semester about advances in in vitro fertilization…”

Jack settled in for the drive back to Providence, accepting shared bites of hamburger and the fries Bitty declared ‘the best’, letting a dubious explanation of genetic advancements envelop him, dreaming of chubby babies with blond curls and big brown eyes.


	17. Eric Bittle-Zimmermann's Greatest Hits

Downtown Providence was quiet, the streets empty, when Jack turned into the parking garage. Even Eric’s rambling chatter about school, the Haus, and the game had waned, until it was just the two of them, breathing in tandem in the comfortable darkness. Jack’s stomach swooped as the nose of the truck topped the underground ramp; he had a feeling the next surprise might be very polarizing.

He slowed as he neared his allotted space, but his usual spot was occupied by a slick red BMW. He took his time to carefully park between the empty lines immediately to the convertible’s right.

“Uh oh,” Eric clucked his tongue. “Someone got your spot.”

Jack took a deep breath and turned off the ignition. “Yeah.” He met Eric’s eyes. “You did.”

“What?” Eric froze, his fingers turning white where they gripped the door handle.

Jack fished a second set of car keys out of his front pocket, a red ribbon bow tied around the keyring. The velvet was limp and a little mangled, and Jack’s heart was thumping so hard the sound filled his head. “Wedding gift?” He asked sheepishly.

“Jack Laurent Zimmerman!” Eric sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, a rousing argument clearly forming, but then his eyes strayed to the pretty little car and he faltered.

It had been perfect, the moment Jack saw it on the lot, sleek and feisty, small and powerful and uncannily beautiful. It was Bitty with an engine and he had purchased it on the spot. Now he shook the keys lightly, sending up a little prayer this didn’t fatally topple the shaky equilibrium he and Eric were still settling into.

Eric shot him a stern glare before hopping out of the truck, and Jack watched as he circled the car, cheeks flushed, his lips moving as he likely cursed Jack to hell and back.

He was running one hand lightly over the glossy red hood when Jack tucked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Eric stiffened and Jack rushed to soothe before everything went pear-shaped. “If you drive yourself to class, you could stay here more.” He hesitated, dragging his cheek over Eric’s crown, breathing him in. “With me.”

Eric’s head was already shaking, but Jack could feel the fine tremble of emotion under his skin, so he barreled ahead. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s not an obligation you have to pay back or earn, I—” Jack stopped, frustrated that he hadn’t been blessed with his father’s golden tongue, unsure how to express himself without scaring Eric off for good with the strength of his feelings. “I didn’t sign Dadery’s papers for a reason. I don’t care about that, or about any of this.” He waved a hand over his head, encompassing the car, the garage, his _life_. “Please keep it. Just… _stay._ You can move into the guest room, whatever. I just—”

Eric twisted around in his arms, burying his face in Jack’s neck. “I don’t want to move into the guest room.” It was muffled, Eric’s mouth hot and damp against his skin. “I can barely sleep without you as it is.”

Jack’s heart twisted and lurched, the rush of euphoria exhilarating; maybe he should try saying what he felt more often. “Me too,” he breathed.

Eric sighed and leaned back, searching Jack’s face. “How did we even get here?” He mused, and Jack understood it wasn’t really a question. He hoped Eric was filled with the same wonder, had the same butterflies vying for freedom against his ribcage. When he started to answer, Eric slapped a palm over his mouth. “And don’t say it was the tequila or I might just slug you.”

Jack kissed the hand covering his lips before shrugging it off. “I don’t even care, I’m just glad we did.”

Eric’s eyes were filled with far less trepidation than they had been a few minutes earlier. 

“Stay with me,” Jack urged softly.

Eric took in a shaky breath and Jack could feel the question hanging in the air between them. _For how long?_

 _Forever,_ he wanted to answer _._          

 “Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Eric repeated, coming up on his toes to kiss him softly. “Thank you.” He kissed him again, a little deeper, a lot longer, and Jack wanted to exhale for ten years.

There had been a surprising number of kisses in their days thus far but this one felt different. He wanted to keep it.

Eric dropped back on his heels and snatched the keys from Jack’s hand. “Wanna go for a ride?” He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Assuming you fit.”

Jack tilted his head and gave him a slow onceover. “I’ve fit in smaller.”

Eric raised one brow, all arch and salt. “And to think I was gonna blow you on the front seat.” He tossed his head and flounced around to the driver’s side and _God almighty,_ Jack loved him.

“That was a compliment!” He called through the glass when Eric refused to unlock the passenger door.

There was an insanely dirty and embarrassingly hot plea bargaining session (in which Jack was grateful the garage was empty), before Eric let him in and they took the little car out for her inaugural trip. Then they drove too fast, and stayed out too late, and when they finally came back to the apartment, they made love in front of a fire in the living room until Jack thought his heart might burst from the weight of his own happiness.

There were still words left unspoken and a pair of rings nestled deep in another pocket, but for once Jack didn’t feel any urgency. Eric was here and they were happy and there would be other nights, other moments, for Jack to lay himself bare and hope he survived.

_/ \\_

“Listen.” Eric’s voice brooked no argument, although Jack was far too content to deny him anything anyway. “That trampy little puck bunny picked the wrong hockey boy to piss off. I will _end her._ ”

Jack squeezed him with a yawn; it was early. They had migrated to the bedroom after Jack’s back had started to protest the hard living room floor. “It was just a picture, Bits. I take dozens of them. It didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re damn right it didn’t mean anything,” Eric muttered, viciously unlocking his phone and opening Instagram.

Jack jumped when Eric flopped over onto his stomach and pointed the camera lens at his face. There wasn’t time to do more than blink before Eric’s face melted into a satisfied smirk and he returned to his previous position tucked into Jack’s side, head on his shoulder.

“We’ll see how little miss fangirl feels when her ‘ _hashtag_ _fave_ _Falconer’_ shows up on her feed naked. In _my_ bed.” Eric’s fingers flew across the screen, punctuated by little grunts and gleeful _hmph’_ s.

“Your bed, huh?” Jack waited, but when it seemed as though Eric was going to be preoccupied for longer than anticipated, he shrugged him off and rolled over, bracketing Eric’s torso with his forearms.

The back of Eric’s head bounced off the mattress with the change in position, but other than a single, artfully lifted brow there was no response.

Jack shrugged, scooting down the bed and wiggling his hips between Eric’s knees. He dropped a kiss to his chest. Then another. And another. He scooted lower.

“Babe.” Eric petted the top of Jack’s head absently.  “I’m trying to work here.”

“Work.” Jack tongued the skin around his navel, hiding a smile when Eric tilted the phone away from his face long enough to glare.

“How can you still be horny? _I’m_ the college boy, fuck.”

Jack ripped the blankets off the bed and threw them to the floor with a shrug. “You’re hot.”

“Not for long,” Eric grumbled, fingers finally still. “Damn nuts are gonna freeze off if you d—” His yelp echoed off the ceiling when Jack snatched the phone from his hand and tossed it to the floor on top of the comforter and sheets. “What the fuck, Zimmermann!”

Jack ignored his angry pout and went back to cataloguing the planes of Eric’s stomach with his mouth. “You’re grounded, college boy.”

“Grounded.” Eric brightened, tugging at a curl on top of Jack’s head. “So like… will I be _punished_?” He made an obscene gesture with his tongue and Jack snorted. “And no phone? No internet? Oh my. Whatever will I do with all that extra free time?” His breath caught when Jack dragged his stubbled chin low across his stomach. “Might have to… _fuck._ Um.” He swallowed, gripping the hair around his fingers so hard Jack winced. “Might have to read a book or something.”

Jack nipped at the delicate skin of his hip in retaliation and then kissed it in apology. “Or something.”

Eric was uncharacteristically quiet for a beat before reaching down to tug at Jack’s ears. “Hey. Come here.”

Jack took his time, lips traveling across Eric’s body in reverse, smiling at the soft flush of his cheeks and the slow sweep of his lashes when he was done. He was tousled and golden and warm and Jack _wanted._ “Yes?”

Eric’s lips parted, his tongue slipping out to wet them. It was unconsciously lovely and Jack wished he could record it, play it again and again when he was alone on the road. Eric cupped his jaw with one hand before moving to graze his cheekbone with his knuckles, feather light. Then a fingertip over his eyebrows, down his nose, across the bow of his lip, and Jack had to force himself to be still, to endure, until Eric finally lifted his face and kissed him, soft and searching. Jack was caught off guard by the sweetness.

When they parted, he nuzzled under Eric’s chin and tried to catch his breath. “You okay, squirt?”

Eric huffed, half laugh, half exasperated snort, and reached down to smack him on the ass. “I told you not to call me that when we’re naked.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over my raging libido,” Jack quipped, wrapping around him and holding him tight, tight enough to chase away whatever had dimmed the bright spark in his eye.

“Thank you,” Eric said quietly. “For the car. And the phone and—” He bit his lip and as Jack watched, he could almost see the panic flash and recede. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to. Every single thing.” _And more_. But the more would keep, and Jack would figure out a way to tell him there was nothing to be afraid of.

“I know, but I don’t get it,” Eric shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Someone else, someone who hadn’t spent the past week cataloguing his every expression, might have even believed him.

“You know,” Jack said, as solemnly as he could muster. “There _is_ something you could do to repay me.”

Eric smirked at that. “Pretty sure I’ve already done that. Twice last night.”

Jack shook his head. “Nuh uh, not this.” He started when two hands cupped his ass. “Wait! Not that either.”

Eric laughed, throaty and full, and it was a sound that could solve all the problems of the world.

Or at least all of Jack’s.

Jack kissed him, lopsided and grinning. “I was talking about pancakes.”

Eric squeezed the handfuls of Falconer-owned derriere he was holding. “Pancakes on the Falcs official meal plan?”

Jack glared. “What happened to ‘ _in sickness and in health, til death do us part, pancakes every day”?_

Eric snorted. “I never said that.”

Jack held up three fingers. “I solemnly swear. I’ve seen it on YouTube.”

“Liar,” Eric pinched his butt. “You wouldn’t know YouTube if it bit you on this fine ass.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Jack wagged his eyebrows. “Not only do I have YouTube, I have a playlist titled Eric Bittle-Zimmermann’s Greatest Hits, and it features a fuck ton of hockey.” He grinned before he added the pièce de résistance. “And figure skating.”

Eric’s mouth dropped open. “You do not.”

“I do.”

“Are you wanking to my old skating routines?” Eric grinned at Jack’s quick flush. “Because that’s hot.”

“No!”

“Are too.”

“Well I wouldn’t have to wank to anything if you’d taken the damn car in the first place!”

Eric squeezed his butt again, grinning delightedly. “This is the best day of my life.”

Jack frowned, feeling abused and defeated and unsure why. “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

“Oh now, honey,” Eric cooed, cupping his face and kissing him again, the execution somewhat lacking due to his still gleeful expression. “Baby’s gonna make you pancakes and then he’s gonna rock your world.”

Jack grunted, mollified, ignoring the persistent twitch of his dick at Eric’s words. _Would he would ever be truly satisfied when there was a naked Bitty within reach_? “You sound awfully confident for someone who refers to himself in the third person.”

“I have a brand new bottle of maple syrup.”

Jack rolled off the bed and to his feet so fast, Eric’s laugh rang throughout the apartment.

There was more laughter while mixing the pancakes, which Eric artfully poured in what he claimed was an approximation of Jack’s dick, prompting Jack to nudge him out of the way to retrieve an extra-large griddle from a cabinet, so the pancakes could be ‘ _to scale’._

“God forbid we eat average dick-size pancakes,” Eric quipped. He then flipped one over so expertly, Jack briefly considered ripping off his pert little apron and blowing him right there.

But he was hungry and there really was a brand new bottle of maple syrup and they still had _after_ breakfast.

When Eric pushed him into a seat at the table and placed the plate in front of him he exhaled, mouth watering. “Marry me.”

Eric kissed him on the cheek. “Remind me to never let you eat in a diner alone.” He turned to retrieve his own plate and twin glasses of juice and it would have been the perfect opportunity for Jack to drop the rings on the table and say _I’m serious. Marry me. Again._

But before he could, Eric was dragging his chair even closer, and thumbing away the droplet of syrup that clung to Jack’s lower lip, and giving him extra bacon, and making this day just like any other day he had already shared with him—absolutely perfect.

 _I love you,_ Jack thought, and this time it hurt. He wondered if that was normal.

As the sun breached the horizon, it tinted the eastern sky peach and gold, a perfect color match to the boy at his side, and Jack decided he didn’t care. As long as he had Bitty, the pain was worth whatever happened next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day to Mwuahna and WillBakeForDean and all my other mom's (and single dad's) out there! xoxoxo


	18. Jack Zimmermann Doesn't Share Pie

The sharp rap on his door caught Jack off guard as he unloaded the dishwasher and he glanced at his phone; had Eric forgotten his keys?

It seemed impossible to believe, but they had already been married a full month. It hadn’t been all smooth sailing (Jack forgot he had given Tater an emergency key and more than once the d-man had barged in at a rather inopportune moment. The Falcs were still teasing Jack about naked baking day; _Top Chef_ had taken on an entirely new meaning in the locker room).

But even disregarding outside influences, there were quirks to living with a complete stranger that Jack had never considered before. Eric hated early mornings; Jack arose at five.

Eric ate bread and dessert with every meal (even breakfast!); Jack counted macros.

Eric squeezed the toothpaste wherever his little fingers landed and left his socks strewn about the carpet; Jack contemplated murder for the very first time.

There were good things too—his gorgeous boy in the stands at home games, wearing his jersey and beaming so brightly Jack was blinded if he looked too long.

A freezer full of reheatable meals when Samwell played away.

The smell of his pillowcase—a mixture of Downy and Eric’s shampoo.

Sunday afternoons in the park, and the patient way Eric was teaching him to live without a schedule.

Rolling over in the night and (almost) always having someone there in the dark.

Sleepy morning sex, when neither one of them had the time.

Accepting the resultant chirps when he was inevitably late for morning practice, wearing the little teethmarks with pride.

Eric was stubborn and cheeky and playful, and Jack was grumpy and hardheaded and so set in his ways Eric had taken to calling him _Old Man Zimmermann_ just to watch him steam.

Sometimes Jack pretended to be mad just for the sweet way Eric would crawl into his lap to apologize, nuzzling his neck and whispering filthy promises in his ear, and always, _always,_ playing with Jack’s hair until he relented.

They were figuring it out, the way countless other newlyweds figured it out.

Except they weren’t _really_ newlyweds, and Jack still had two custom platinum rings buried in the bottom of his duffle bag. He told himself that he was waiting for _the_ moment, but it was a moment that he was increasingly despairing might never appear. His nerves about the whole thing had finally reached a threshold where he (and his therapist, who he had called soon after his first aborted attempt at a proposal) made the decision to tuck them away in a safe place. Until he was ready. Until it wasn’t consuming him.

Eric still consumed him, though. Lived in his head, on his skin, against his lips. Day and night. His therapist said it would pass.

Jack really hoped it didn’t.

The knock came again and he started, hurrying to open the door, a teasing laugh dying in his throat when he saw who stood on the other side.

“Mom.” Jack blinked. “Dad.”

_/ \\_

“Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t want Eric to feel ambushed.” Alicia Zimmermann frowned, her kind eyes scanning Jack’s face for any tells.

“It’ll be fine.” Jack hoped he was right. They hadn’t really talked about meeting their families, one of those _things_ they tended to skirt, things that meant permanence. It had conveniently worked out that neither was home when the other had gotten a call from their respective mothers, and other than a lot of pointed sniffs about only knowing what the gossipy hockey sites leaked about her son’s new husband, Jack’s mom, at least, had seemed content to wait. She knew the pressure he had always felt—from his lifestyle, his career—that she had instinctively understood Jack would want to do this on his own terms.

Apparently Bad Bob had overridden her.

“Why wouldn’t it be fine?” Bob asked, clearly perplexed. “I don’t know what the fuss is about. The only reason we haven’t made it down before this is because the two of you haven’t had coordinated home games until now, and we wanted to be equally supportive.”

Alicia winked at Jack and he chuckled. His dad would probably never understand that the only reason his life ran as smoothly as it did was because of the beautiful blonde at his side.

“Thanks, Dad. It’s just a surprise.” Jack shrugged. “But he’ll be thrilled. I’m sure.”

“Oh.” Bob seemed to consider this for a beat. “Are _you_ okay? I know you don’t like, uh,” he squirmed in his seat. “Surprises.”

Jack hid his smile and considered making his dad suffer. Just a bit. They had had a complicated relationship for years; it wasn’t easy growing up a prodigy—but especially not when your father was also a superstar. That was mostly all behind them now, though. Jack had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that he would never be the hockey player his father was, and that was okay. He could be _Jack Zimmermann,_ instead. He was more than Bad Bob’s son, even if very, very occasionally, the thought that maybe he _wasn’t_ reared its ugly head.

“Because, if you think it would help, we could hide out at the hotel. Give you both time to think about it.” Bob flushed under Alicia’s soft gaze. He gathered her hand in his own under the table. “Your mother can shop and I can golf. Eric never even has to know we’re—”

“Papa,” Jack interrupted. He grinned at his dad’s startled expression. “He’s going to love you. Stop worrying.”

Bob cleared his throat, flustered. “I’m not worried.”

Alicia huffed. “He fretted the entire flight. I thought I was going to have to slip him a bourbon.”

“I did not,” Bob protested hotly, but his flushed cheeks told a different tale. He glanced around the apartment, seeking to change the subject, noting the changes since his last visit. “The place looks nice. Like you’ve finally settled in.”

Jack followed his gaze. There was a basket of checked potholders on the counter, beside a bright red stand mixer and a chef-quality block of knives. A milkglass vase of peonies adorned the end of the bar, and a mason jar of daisies sat between them on the dining table. Small framed snapshots of Jack and Eric (both alone and together) dotted the flat surfaces around the combination living/dining areas, and a colorful throw was tossed over the back of the couch. He tried to see it through their eyes, and realized—it looked and felt like home. Maybe for the first time since he had moved in. He had to swallow before he could speak. “Eric has a way.”  

“I love it.” Alicia’s eyes were shining and Jack knew they needed to get up and get moving before this got any more maudlin than it already had.

“Okay! Let’s talk about the game plan for tonight. Dinner first?”

Bob and Alicia exchanged a quick smile.

“Oh, let’s wait for Eric. He’ll probably be starving after the game.” Bob said, throwing an arm around Alicia’s shoulders. “Maybe you can heat up one of those pies in the freezer for a snack?”

His face was so innocent, Jack laughed. “Oh no, you don’t. That’s _my_ pie. For special occasions.”

“Meeting your in-laws for the first time isn’t a special occasion?” Bob grumbled, but he acquiesced when Jack offered a slice of pound cake and another cup of coffee instead.

When the dining table talk devolved into hockey strategy, Alicia took her tea and slowly traversed the room, stopping to study each photograph. Jack was sure he saw her surreptitiously wipe away a tear or two.

She called a truce when it became clear Bob was getting a second wind. “Honey, I think we should let Jack have a little peace before we leave for the game.”

“Hmm? Oh!” Bob glanced at his watch. “Of course. Jack, we’ll pick you up at five. That should be plenty of time to get seats before Eric’s game, shouldn’t it?”

“Better make it five-thirty,” Jack said. “I’d rather not make a big fuss before the Wellie’s take the ice.” With their conflicting schedules, _he_ hadn’t been able to make it to one of Eric’s home games since the first time, and showing up with his parents in tow—unannounced!—was enough to give him hives. His skin crawled as he imagined being trapped in the stands for an hour or more before the game.

Bob raised his brows, but shrugged in agreement. Jack would never understand how his father took his fame in such stride. He was never ruffled by the rush of fans, and he always had the perfect soundbite for a random reporter. He had told Jack once that it came with time, and experience, but Jack (after several years of the same treatment) was beginning to believe it wasn’t that at all. It was his dad and his special brand of charisma, one that the younger Zimmermann, unfortunately, hadn’t inherited.

He walked them to the door, where his mom spun around and grabbed him in a hard hug.

“I’m so happy for you, Jack,” she whispered, quickly kissing his cheek and turning away before he could respond.

Bob winked and bumped his fist. “See you in a couple hours, son.”

“Drive safe,” Jack said, flooded with emotions ranging from prickling annoyance at, yes, being _surprised_ , to overwhelming love and affection for these two people who had always, and would always, love him above all else. He waited until the elevator doors closed, and then stood there still, in the hallway, thinking about love and family and Eric, and how to him, right now, they all meant the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a month it has been... (for me and our lovebirds).  
> What will Eric think when he sees Bad Bob in the stands? 0.0


	19. The One with the Puck Bunny

Jack climbed into the back of his parents’ rental car, freezing for a split second before snorting. “Oh my God.”

They were both twisted around in their seats to greet him, wearing matching Samwell Men’s Hockey sweatshirts.

“What?” Bob sniffed, adjusting his SMH ballcap. “We wear Falconer’s jerseys to your games.” He faced forward and started the car. His back read _DAD_ above a large number fifteen.

Jack’s grin grew when Alicia turned to show him her back— _MOM._ “You’re both ridiculous, you know that right?” The excited, nervous fluttering in his stomach intensified. He had never been here, in a place where he could share his life in such an intimate, profound way with his parents, and if anyone had told him before how much he would love it, need it, he would have scoffed in disbelief.

And yet, here he was, nearly choking on how important it was.

“We’ll have to get a family picture, after the game. I need one for the mantel.” Alicia caught his eye in her visor mirror as she checked her lipstick. “Maybe we can even get on the ice! I hear the Faber Arena is spectacular.”

“Maman,” Jack shook his head, cheeks hot, thrilling at the idea of his and Eric’s photo in his parents’ home, then swept with a rush of melancholy because it wasn’t real. No matter how wonderful this felt, how excited his parents were—he and Eric were still playing pretend and every damn day, no matter how sweet or significant, it was tinged with a sense of urgency. It was limited; they were limited. “Don’t push.”

Alicia grimaced. “I’m not pushing.” She looked at Bob. “Am I pushing?”

“Maybe a little,” Bob grinned. He reached over to pat her leg. “You go right ahead though. I got your back.”

“You’re both hopeless,” Jack chuckled and shook his head. He had always been outnumbered with them, two against one, even as a child understanding their connection was deeper than any he had ever known.

His phone buzzed in his hand and he glanced at it.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Pity I don’t have a man here to suck my--_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Oh wait there’s Ransom now._

Jack grinned. _Inadvisable._

 **_Eric:_ ** _You’re not the boss of me._

 **_Jack:_ ** _I’m the boss of your dick so._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Since when. I wasn’t notified. I’m offended._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Since I put a ring on it. When I notified you._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Pshh. I have no memory of this ring. What’s it look like._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Ugly. Four feet tall. Nine fake diamonds._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Sounds impressive._

 **_Jack:_ ** _It is._

 **_Eric:_ ** _But is it worth more than before-game dick suckage by a handsome lineman. Hmm._

Jack frowned; Eric was working him up for no other reason than to get his juices flowing, make him so horny and angry that he would sit in the stands and stew throughout the entire game. He knew every last button to push and right now he was practically punching them.

 **_Jack:_ ** _Maybe we should invoke the opinion of someone with similar experience. Maybe a certain puck bunny will be available. I’ll scope it out when I get there and get back to you._

 ** _Eric:_** >:(

 **_Eric:_ ** _The fuck you will!_

Jack smiled to himself. Sucked when the shoe was on the other foot. His phone buzzed four times in quick succession. Three were text messages and one was an Instagram notification.

 **_Eric:_ ** _I will end her._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Then you._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Then her again._

Jack chuckled and opened Instagram. Eric had reposted one of Tater’s snapshots of them during a team dinner one night a few weeks ago. They were seated around a long buffet table at the Mexican restaurant where Jack and Eric had had their first dinner in Providence, and Eric had just placed a brightly hued sombrero on Jack’s head. Jack was laughing up at him, one hand gripping his hip possessively, as though he was afraid Eric might slip away. Eric’s caption read _Oh Captain, My Captain <3_

Jack liked it and replied _Does that mean I won?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _No!_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Maybe… Depends._

 **_Jack:_ ** _On what?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _…_

 **_Eric:_ ** _On whether or not you really want a puck bunny_

Jack frowned again. Of course he didn’t want some random girl. Or guy. Eric knew that. Didn’t he?

 **_Jack:_ ** _You know that I don’t._

 When Eric didn’t immediately reply, he had to take several deep breaths, exhaling careful and slow.

 **_Jack:_ ** _Bits?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Sorry sorry. Went too far and only hurt myself :(_

Jack wanted to urge his father faster, wished he had let his parents talk him into arriving at five. He would be there by now, would be able to kiss away any doubts or misgivings Eric was obviously feeling. He didn’t need this right before a game, and now Jack was about to spring a fairly substantial surprise on him too.

 **_Jack:_ ** _I’ll be there in a few minutes. Hang on ok?_

 **_Jack:_ ** _And it wasn’t only you._

Three dots appeared for a split second, and then vanished. Eric didn’t reply again.

Jack stopped just shy of asking his father to drop him at the Faber door. He hastily bought tickets and shoved them into his father’s hands. “I’ll meet you in the stands.”

“Jack!”

But Jack didn’t hesitate; he had to find Eric. There was something strange in his chest, a tight ball of unease. It had been playful, they had only been teasing, and yet a very real fear that he hadn’t even known Eric had been feeling had made itself known.

And he was going to take care of that right now, because it was ridiculous. Because there was no one else on the planet that made Jack feel the way Eric did, the way he always had. The best night of Jack’s life had happened in a dark, smoky salsa club in Las Vegas and by God if it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to make Eric see.

He knocked on the men’s locker room door, nodding curtly at Lardo when she pushed it open. He went straight for Eric, who turned toward him at the last second, eyes widening in surprise.

“Jack—”

And then Jack was kissing him, much to the amusement of the rest of the team, who whistled and cheered raucously.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time, and then laughed.

“Bits—” Jack swallowed, acutely aware of the other boys gamely pretending they weren’t listening to every word. He grabbed Eric’s hand and pulled him toward the showers. He wanted to tell him that he loved him, the words all but burning in his throat, begging for release, but he didn’t want it to be here, in a room full of half-dressed hockey boys or a dank, dark shower stall. He gritted his teeth in frustration and as soon as they were out of sight, pushed Eric into the wall by the door. He kissed him, again and again, trying to convey with his mouth all that was bubbling inside of him, so close to the surface, hoping Eric might feel the words, even if Jack couldn’t yet say them.

“I don’t want anyone else but you.” Jack’s voice was husky when he finally caught his breath. He pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes, fighting for lost equilibrium, heart hammering wildly in his chest. “I haven’t since that night in Vegas. I won’t.”

Eric shook his head. “You might,” he whispered, sweetly rubbing his open mouth along Jack’s jaw, a little hitch in his throat when he inhaled. “I’m just—me. And you’re you and you meet—”

“No.” Jack gave him a vicious little shake, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I won’t.”

They stared at one another. Jack could see Eric warring with himself, a fierce need to believe battling a lingering fear that he was wrong, that they both were. He pulled him close in a hard hug, wishing Eric wasn’t in pads so he could feel those familiar muscles under his hands, could soothe him with touch. “And you’re perfect.”

Eric snorted, his voice thick and tinged with honey when he spoke. “I’m so not.”

Jack leaned back to smile at him. “You are to me.” He kissed him, slowly this time, less urgent. “You’re mine,” he whispered in his ear, holding him tighter when he felt him shiver.

“Jack, I—”

“Bittle! Time!”

“Fuck.” Eric wavered, his hands fisting at Jack’s waist.

“Go.” Jack took a healthy, if regrettable, step back. The loss of Eric’s warmth was a physical pain. “We’ll talk after.”

Eric bit his lip and then surged forward to kiss him again. “Thanks for coming down, sweetheart.”

Jack groaned. “Eric… _go._ ” Or he was going to throw him over his shoulder and steal him away, hockey or not. There was that nice, dark alley behind Faber. His vision blurred as he was hit with the memory of a lapful of Bitty and a head full of stars.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Eric smiled, pausing by the door. “Jack.”

“What?” Jack grumbled, feeling hot and aggravated and happy, all at once.

“No more puck bunnies.”

Jack smiled slowly. _This_ he could handle. “I’m the only puck bunny here tonight.” He winked, laughing when Eric blushed and rolled his eyes. It was a full ten seconds after he disappeared before Jack realized he hadn’t warned Eric about his parents. “Fuck!”

Lardo poked her head into the room. “You gonna watch the game, or…?”

“My dad,” Jack said, scrubbing his face.

“Your dad.” Lardo pushed him out of the showers and toward the locker room door. “Nice fella. Played good hockey.”

“He’s here.”

Lardo froze. “Come again?”

“My dad is here. And my mom,” Jack giggled, suddenly giddy. “We’re all here,” he snort-laughed, eyes watering with mirth. “In matching shirts!”

Lardo’s eyes narrowed and she reached up to touch his forehead with the back of her hand. “You feeling okay, buddy?”

Jack grabbed her in a hug, squeezing her until she gasped. “Lardo, I’m in love with Eric Bittle!”

Lardo patted his shoulder carefully. “No shit,” she said with a grimace. “That’s probably why you married him.”

Jack laughed and scrubbed her head with his knuckle, grinning at her furious expression. “No, I married him because of his hot little ass. I’m in love with him because…” he trailed off, blinking rapidly. “Because he’s perfect.”

“Okay, big boy,” Lardo soothed, turning him toward the arena. “Let’s you and I go watch Hot Ass Bittle play some hockey, yeah? How’s that sound.”

Jack ignored her sweetly affected tone, unable to keep the smile from his face. He had said it out loud and the walls hadn’t collapsed. Lardo hadn’t even seemed surprised. And he had all but told Eric he loved him—‘ _You’re mine’—_ and Eric hadn’t pulled away. If anything he had burrowed closer, seemingly needing that reassurance, craving it. Maybe Jack had been wrong. Maybe there was no _moment_.

Maybe _every_ moment was the moment.  Maybe that was the secret.

As he climbed the stands to sit with his parents, practically glowing while they waved matching Samwell pennant flags as the Wellies took the ice, Jack felt a surge of excitement wash over him.

He loved Eric Bittle.

And he was more than a little bit certain that Eric Bittle loved him back.


	20. It Is What It Is

“Holy shit!” Bob grabbed Jack’s bicep with both hands and squeezed. “Did you see that? Hot damn!”

Jack laughed, near bursting with pride. His parents, his dad in particular, had gone from dubious to fearful to stunned when Eric first took the ice. It wasn’t just his stature; he looked so damn _young_ in comparison to the collegiate athletes he shared the rink with.

And then his speed and wicked accurate reflexes had lit a fire under Bad Bob that reminded Jack of his own early days in the NHL. His dad was nothing if not overzealous and hyper-supportive, to the point Jack had at times begged him to please _for the love of God_ temper his enthusiasm, especially to the media.

Jack had no plans to hold him back now.

Watching Eric’s face go slack, then light up when he spotted them in the stands was enough for Jack to believe it was the right decision.

Throughout the game there were small pockets of time where fans approached, wanting autographs and photos, and in each and every one Bob mentioned Eric’s name, bragging on his most recent assist or his blink and you’ll miss it footwork. Occasionally these strangers were supportive; more often than Jack liked they were blatantly shocked at Bob’s open acceptance. They weren’t even attempting to be discreet as they eyeballed Jack’s ring finger with half-hidden sneers.

Bob politely refused photos with those people, and Jack hid his grin when he noticed his dad signing the wrong autograph _._ _Ha. Suckers._

Jack relaxed after that, making sure his back was clearly visible at all times, Eric’s taped number discernible on his jersey.

Shitty arrived, forty minutes late and crying with laughter at Bob and Alicia’s shirts.

“SportsCenter just showed a bunch of your selfies,” he slapped his hand in Bob’s and shook. “And the ticket office just closed! Sold out game, no thanks to you!”

Jack grimaced; so much for keeping a low profile. Not that any of them had actively attempted that. He hoped Eric didn’t mind too much. Or Gillian. He shook Shitty’s hand after he finished kissing Alicia’s cheek. “Stop slobbering on my mother,” he grinned. “Mom, Dad—this is Shitty Knight, Eric’s best friend. Shitty, my parents. Bob and Alicia Zimmermann.”

Shitty clapped his hands together in glee. “I have never been so happy to see parental units in my _life!_ Who’s buying the first round?”

Bob’s smile was wide. “I guess that will be me. Hon?”

 “Just a bottle of water for me.” Alicia patted his vacated seat. “Shitty sit here and tell me more about yourself.”

Jack groaned. “Don’t let her innocent face fool you. She’s digging for dirt on Bitty.”

Shitty dropped into the seat, delighted. “Ooh yes, let’s dish.”

“Shitty!” Jack said in consternation, but with Shitty and his mother outnumbering him, he followed his dad to the concessions instead. He very carefully refused selfies with the single female population of attendees, and stuck to group shots with Bob.

His dad smirked and passed him two water bottles. “I see you’ve been given the spousal warning about groupies.”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Jack flushed. “I mean, yeah. Bitty, um, Eric would prefer…you know.” He was squirming and his dad knew it. _Jerk._ “He’s not overly fond of a certain type of fan.”

“Neither was your mother,” Bob whispered and made a slashing motion across his throat.

Jack laughed. “Um,” he winced and nodded toward a scantily dressed co-ed desperately trying to get his attention. “How did you handle that?”

Bob grinned. “I made sure never to travel alone.” He nudged Jack’s arm. “Use the buddy system, and whenever possible, keep Eric front and center.”

Jack considered his father for a moment, trying to remember a time when Bob’s sincere advice had been about life and not about hockey. “Thanks, Dad.”

Bob winked and waved Jack ahead of him down the stairs.

Jack raised his brows when they reached their seats. Shitty and his mother were temple to temple, watching something on Shitty’s phone, whispering, not unlike the teenage girls Jack had left behind at the concession. “Maman.” He poked her with the water bottle.

“Oh, Jack!” She accepted the water bottle with a giggle, her face alight with amused fondness. “Why didn’t you tell me Bitty was a vlogger? He’s adorable!”

Jack blinked. “A what?”

Shitty snickered. “Jack’s a technophobe.”

Alicia sighed. “Don’t I know it.”

“Hey!” Jack frowned. “I have Instagram.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Alicia opened her water and sipped it with a smile. “I follow both you and Eric. Not that you follow me back.” She sniffed delicately. “I know you’re busy.”

Jack didn’t bother admitting out he didn’t know how to find her or follow her back; she already knew he’d ask Eric to do it later. He shot Shitty a glare when he settled in beside him.

“Bro, don’t be that way,” Shitty laughed, taking his beer from Bob with a wide grin. “I was going to show you Bitty’s YouTube. Probably.”

“His Twitter is entertaining too,” Bob added, leaning forward to look at Jack. “You should have the Falconers set you up, son. Let Eric manage it.”

Jack stared at his companions. All three were wearing the same wide-eyed, teasing expression. He flipped them off and sat back to focus on his boy. The team was taking the ice.

…

 “Mom,” Jack pleaded. “No more photos. Eric’s tired.”

“No, it’s fine,” Eric laughed, squeezing Jack’s hand. He hadn’t let go since emerging from the showers, passed from person to person in greetings and enthusiastic hugs until he landed, at last, in Jack’s arms.

His eyes were tired, though, Jack thought, the pink of his cheeks less emotion and more exhaustion. Jack wanted to take him home and put him to bed.

“Oh, all right,” Alicia laughed, pocketing her phone. “You’re just so cute together.”

Eric wrinkled his nose and gave Jack a wink.

“Stop! I already put my cell in my purse!” Alicia cried in frustration.

Bob’s laugh boomed over their heads. “Ali, my girl, let’s go explore this little town. Find a nice drive-in for a burger. I bet the local kids have a banging makeout spot.” He wagged his eyebrows and Jack groaned.

“ _Dad._ Don’t say ‘banging’.”

“Never you mind, kiddo,” Bob grinned. “You and Eric go enjoy the rest of your night. We’ll take you to lunch tomorrow.”

Jack could see Eric begin to protest, not wanting to be the cause of a sudden change in plans. “Sounds great!” He smiled wide, dragging Eric toward the door. “Bye!”

“Jack.” Eric dug in his heels, yelping when he stumbled over a discarded popcorn bag. “ _Jack._ ”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “No time to stop, Bits, it’s too dangerous.” He pushed through the remaining crowd, ignoring the shouts of congratulations and requests for photos. He didn’t breathe easy until they were standing on the steps in front of Faber.  

Eric yanked his hand away and glared. “That was so disrespectful. Your mother must think I’m horrible.”

Jack grabbed his face between his hands and kissed him, hard. “In case you didn’t notice, my mother thinks you’re the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.”

Eric squirmed free. “Don’t try to seduce me, Mr. Zimmermann. You were unforgivably rude.”

Jack heard a familiar voice through the open lobby door and grabbed his hand again, thinking worst case scenario he could pick him up and make a run for it. “I’ll make it up to you when we’re naked.” He took off down the steps, Eric following on his heels.

 _“_ When _we’re_ naked, my ass,” Eric grumbled. _“I’m_ the one who’s always naked. And I’m not the one with a _Body_ issue either.”

“You should be,” Jack winked, stopping beside Eric’s little red car, and fumbling for his set of keys. He unlocked the door and tossed Eric’s duffle in the back. When Eric hesitated, he cocked one brow. “You want to get naked now, or?” He laughed when Eric socked him in the shoulder. “Because I’m totally on board with that. It would be _banging._ ”

“Shut up. Just shut up right now.” Eric threw a second, then third punch, grunting in frustration when Jack danced around him, dodging the blows. He gasped when Jack grabbed his hips and slammed them together, front to front. They were panting lightly from the sudden burst of exertion, and Jack smiled inwardly when Eric’s eyes caught on his mouth. 

“You didn’t thank me for coming,” Jack teased, rocking his hips slightly forward.

Eric’s lashes fluttered before he tilted his head up and frowned. “You already came?”

Jack snorted and smacked him on his pert little ass. “Get in the car, you heathen, before I am forced to make a spectacle.”

“A spectacle.” Eric smacked his lips exaggeratedly and Jack laughed, shoving him bodily into the front seat.

“Little shit,” Jack muttered fondly, jogging around the front of the car and waving to his parents in the distance.

When he turned toward Providence, he felt Eric’s eyes on him. “I can stop and get you something to eat, if you’re hungry.”

“I can wait.”

The words were quiet, and Jack reached for his hand. “You don’t have to. Do you want me to call my mom? We can still meet them.”

Eric squeezed his fingers. “It’s all right, I’m good.” He laughed softly. “Don’t want to spoil their date.”

Jack stole another glance, but Eric was staring out of the window, the passing cars dotting his cheeks in sparks of yellow and blue. There was something more contemplative about his expression than Jack was used to seeing. “You all right?”

“Hmm?” Eric looked over in surprise. “Yeah, why?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know, you’re awfully quiet.”

“Tired.” This was punctuated with a yawn.

“You sure? My parents, that wasn’t too—” Jack tried to think of the right word to describe them and came up blank. _Traumatic_ seemed the closest, but maybe he was overreacting.

“Of course not,” Eric scoffed. “They were amazing. Although whose idea it was to share my YouTube channel, I’ll never understand.”

“That would be Shitty,” Jack grinned. “And you should be thanking him. That was the moment my mother fell in love with you.”

Eric rolled his eyes good naturedly. “That’s a part of me I’d have as soon kept secret, thank you very much.”

“Why?” Jack was honestly curious; he hadn’t seen more than a brief clip between periods, but even those few short minutes had made him smile. It was pure, unadulterated Bitty; sparkling brown eyes and loaded with sass, his southern drawl out in all its glory. It was definitely going in Jack’s own playlist, to watch on those days when they were apart.

Eric’s voice was subdued. “I don’t want to draw more attention to myself than this already has.”

Jack frowned; he hadn’t considered that. People were cruel, and anonymous users of the internet even more so. There was nothing objectionable about Eric or his content, but simply by virtue of being associated with Jack, he would likely be eviscerated—by fans of the Falconers’ opposing teams, by anti-gay assholes, by despicable internet trolls.

Unfortunately, there was little to be done about it.

“I’m sorry, Bits,” he said slowly, bringing the back of Eric’s hand to his mouth. “I’d say it will get better, but that’s probably a lie.”

Eric shrugged again, his tone when he answered more defeated than Jack had ever heard it. “I know. It is what it is.”

A tiny sliver of fear ran through Jack, settling in his stomach in a hard knot.

He couldn’t think of anything to say, wishing again he had inherited his father’s glibness. The negatives, the hardships, they were all true, and it sucked, but at least they were in this together—although Jack could admit fate had awarded him the loftier position of the two. Fair or not, Eric was the one who would carry the brunt of the abuse, who had been and would be expected to change his lifestyle the most. Jack would gladly carry the burden, though, if he could. He would do anything for Eric, to keep him safe and happy, to be with him.

The remainder of the drive was finished in silence.

…

Monday dawned unseasonably cold, the kind of grey, stormy day Jack usually loved—his breath puffing around his head on his run, the sharp bite of the air in his lungs almost painful. But the gloom seemed ominous when he woke up alone, and when his hands reached across the sheets for a warm body, they found nothing but pillow and emptiness instead.

He blinked blearily, mind combing over the previous evening, trying to remember if he had forgotten something important.

Sunday had been a whirlwind of shared shower, brunch with his parents, and then a brutal afternoon workout that he was still feeling the effects of. His mother had seized Eric for the duration, returning him with two bags from Williams-Sonoma and extracting a promise for a long weekend up north very soon. Jack had helped Eric unwrap every accessory and gadget, listening to him extol the merits of each, stealing kisses when he could.

Then there had been paperwork with Georgia and homework for Eric, and when Jack was finally finished, instead of the long, slow evening of sex his imagination had fed him as motivation, he found an exhausted Eric slumped over a giant textbook on the couch. Jack had carried him to bed, despite his sleepy protests, and caught up on game video with Eric curled and snoring into his side.

The bedroom was chilly, the muted morning sunlight providing little actual warmth, so Jack climbed out of bed and padded to the kitchen. There was no reason for the nagging hint of foreboding, but he couldn’t shake it, and it grew stronger when the couch revealed no Eric and the countertops held no sign of a note. Eric’s textbooks were gone from the coffee table, as were his shoes and jacket by the door.

Jack went back to the bedroom and checked his phone; no messages. He tapped out a quick text before going to brush his teeth and shower.

**_Jack:_ ** _Where’d you get off to so early?_

 When there was no answer by the time he was dressed and heading out the door, the dark intuition was growing, exploding into large scale panic when the garage revealed Eric’s car in its spot next to Jack’s truck.

**_Jack:_ ** _Everything okay?_

Jack sat in the truck, staring down at the shiny red hood of the convertible. Without his car, how far could he have gone? With all of those new kitchen toys, maybe he wanted to try a new recipe and had made a grocery run.  

That didn’t feel right, though, as Jack backed out of his space and drove slowly to the entrance. It didn’t feel like Eric was out on an errand. He couldn’t explain how, but this felt… permanent.

Practice was routine, Jack’s texts went unanswered, and day slid into night unbearably slow.

**_Jack:_ ** _Please let me know you’re all right._

Jack almost added _I love you,_ before remembering that he had never said it aloud, and damn if the first time was going to be electronic.

Reheating a frozen meal Eric had prepared for him gave him a lot of time to consider the options. Jack wondered if maybe it had simply been too much, maybe they moved too fast. _Of course they had moved to fast,_ he thought. _Vegas, you ass._

He stirred his beef stew and took a bite, mind ticking off the many possible mistakes he had made. Maybe his parents, as well-meaning and doting as they were, had been the last (if loving) straw.

After he ate, Jack had made the difficult decision to let him be. Eric was young, he needed space, he wouldn’t be gone forever.

He couldn’t be.

He made it all the way to midnight before his resolve crumbled. Little things had gutted him while he tried to survive the too-quiet night: Eric’s toothbrush gone from the shared cup in the bathroom, his trashy novel gone from the bedside table, his tiny sleep shorts missing from their shared dresser drawer.

These were things that had always remained at Jack’s even when Eric stayed at the Haus for late practice or when Jack was away.

Their absence now was haunting and Jack couldn’t sleep.

Feeling guilty and sneaky and far over the borderline of intrusive, Jack logged into the app on his phone that checked the location of his devices.

After an unbearable minute of location logging…there he was. A blinking dot on an interstate, far south of Providence and still moving. Nearly to Georgia.

Jack’s first instinct was to grab his laptop and check flights, but before the search loaded, he froze, considering, before slowly closing the lid.

If it had been an emergency, if Eric had been needed at home—he would have told him.

This wasn’t Eric going home because he was needed.

This was Eric running home because he needed to get away.

The sorrow was instantaneous. Jack understood, on a cellular level, what it meant to be overwhelmed by your own life. And once he had weathered the initial agony, and his thoughts had started to clear, he could admit that for the past month and change he’d been so preoccupied with accepting his own love for Eric, that he hadn’t stopped to really consider what it might feel like to be on the flip side of this crazy relationship. Eric had had to contend with a famous athlete husband, an unpredictable and volatile intrusion of strangers in his life, photographers and reporters and ‘fans’—all of whom showed up according to their own time tables, at their own whim, with no conscious thought given to _Eric_ , or Eric’s needs and wants.

Add to that a pair of in-laws begging to love him and a husband who spoiled him rotten—even when Eric begged him not to—and yeah. Maybe it had all been a little too much.

As much as he wished Eric had trusted him enough to let him know he needed space, so they could work through it together, Jack also recognized that his husband was very young.

And yet…he was adult in all the ways it mattered, more poised and courageous and smart than Jack on his best day, and his absence was a giant gaping hole in Jack’s life.

He was somewhere right now, hurting and alone, and there were things he didn’t know. Things Jack had never taken the chance, the risk, to say.

Things Eric deserved to hear, that might have made all the difference.

Jack grabbed his duffle and began to pack.


	21. Home is Where the Heart Is

Jack had forgotten how soothing, peaceful, a long drive could be. As much as haste was nipping at his heels, he had never cared for bustling interstates, and so chose to detour slightly west from Mapquest’s recommended route. Lancaster County presented the first green buds of spring, and rewarded him with gentle hills and roadside vegetable stands waiting for summer harvest.  There were also more antique shops than his mother would know what to do with. He stopped for breakfast in a little diner so picturesque it felt more like a movie set than real life.

Intrigued by a barnwood frame and handpainted sign, he wandered  through a bustling market next door to stretch his legs. The booths were a mix of food and flowers, crafts, and antiques. It was a overwhelming hodge podge of sights and scents saved from being too stimulating by the soothing hum of the friendly conversation that flowed throughout the building. He paused at a booth to admire a brightly colored handmade quilt, then bought it on a whim, picturing Suzanne Bittle, from Eric’s limited descriptions, and thinking she might like something just like that.

He chose a dozen jars of homemade preserves next, and then plastic baggies of locally harvested popcorn, the plain white labels handwritten in blue ballpoint ink. _Hi-Pop!,_ it said, and he wondered if he had a popcorn maker, smiling as he imagined Eric’s indignant expression at the thought of ‘air popped’ corn—unless Jack didn’t know him at all, Eric was for certain a stovetop popcorn kind of guy.

One booth adjacent, under a broken framed photo of Dolly Parton, Jack discovered a cracked leather binder of recipes, a treasure trove of mid-century American foods, handwritten scraps of paper and yellowed newspaper clippings with titles like _Linda’s Pound Cake_ and _Aunt Merle’s Peanut Butter Pie._ At the register he added a large paper sack of hand-hulled walnuts, hoping Eric’s father would accept them as a peace offering. Jack probably wasn’t his favorite person right about now, particularly if Eric had arrived on his doorstep with a broken heart.

There was another stop for gas and stretching, and a drive-thru burger that was eaten to ward off a looming headache rather than for any real hunger, and then long stretches of monotonous, dark roads before Jack pulled into to Madison, Georgia just past one a.m. Thanks to a quick reverse name search at his last rest stop, he knew that Eric’s parents lived on Belmont Street, not too far off of US 129. He only debated grabbing a motel for the night for a fast minute, knowing he wouldn’t sleep, all keyed up and with Eric just blocks away. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but he needed to see him tonight.

He parked across from the modest little house that matched the address on his phone and killed the engine; he might draw the attention of the neighbors, but so be it. Hopefully Eric would rescue him before he got arrested for loitering. He carefully typed out a text, hoping he was still awake and still reading Jack’s messages, even if he had yet to answer one.  

**_Jack:_ ** _I really hope you’re awake._

**_Jack:_ ** _Because I miss you._

He waited, but there was nothing to indicate Eric had seen it. He plowed on.

**_Jack:_ ** _But also because I probably did a really stupid thing. I should have asked first, but I didn’t and now it’s too late._

He waited some more, chewing on his bottom lip, closing his eyes to relieve the tired burn. His phone remained silent and still in his palm, and he took a fortifying breath. _Here goes nothing._

**_Jack:_ ** _See—I’m sitting in your car. In Madison, Georgia._

**_Jack:_ ** _Outside your parents house._

He stared hard at the little house for any sign of movement, one finger tapping impatiently on his knee.

**_Jack:_ ** _It’s dark, it’s late. The neighbors are probably going to have me arrested._

He toyed with the keys dangling from the ignition, a sad smile playing at his mouth. It was going to be a lonely seventeen hours in the opposite direction if he was totally off the mark. He rolled his neck; he really needed out of this car.   

**_Jack:_ ** _I have a case of homemade jam and a vintage church cookbook in the backseat, and I guess I’ll be sleeping in this damned tiny car under that Amish quilt I got your mom in Pennsylvania_

**_Jack:_ ** _because I don’t know Bits. I don’t_

The porch light came on and Jack sat straight up, pulse pounding in his ears as a familiar blonde head appeared under the old-fashioned glass-covered lamp.

Eric was dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants and Jack’s Falconers t-shirt, his hair mussed, his handsome face wary, and Jack had never loved anything so much in his entire life.

He wanted to scoop him up in his arms and never let him go.

He held back even as his body protested; Eric had run away, and Jack was no longer the one in charge. He needed to relinquish the lead. He climbed from the car and closed the door behind him with a quiet _click_ , leaning back and waiting for Eric to approach. _Please._

His feet were bare, Jack noticed, the dappled moonlight dotting Eric’s body as he passed under a tree. He almost never slept without socks at Jack’s—always cold. It made Jack sad in a miserable, startling way, to realize that maybe Eric _wanted_ to sleep without socks, maybe he had been consciously adapting his natural preferences in order to simply exist in Jack’s world. It seemed wholly unfair in Jack’s long mental catalogue of imbalances.

Eric stopped at the edge of the drive, cautiously eyeing him across the expanse of worn, gray asphalt, and Jack had to force himself to smile around a churning stomach and clenched jaw.

“Hi.”

Eric crossed his arms in front of his stomach, holding himself. Doing Jack’s job. “Hi.” His eyes were indecipherable at this distance, in the deep blue of the darkness, and Jack hated that he couldn’t read him.

“I, uh,” Jack slid to the right a few inches, the door handle digging into his butt. “I bought some jam.”

Eric blinked, then sucked in a deep breath, his gaze darting to the neatly mowed ditch and back. “What kind?”

“Plum, peach…” Jack scrunched his nose, trying valiantly to remember. “Apple butter?”

Eric toed a loose bit of gravel, his foot pointed in that graceful way Jack loved. “Apple butter’s not jam.”

“It’s not butter either.” Jack’s stomach did a quick somersault when a small smile flitted across Eric’s face.

“True.” Eric shifted his weight to the other foot. “And, um. A quilt? Amish?”

“Mmm,” Jack nodded, wondering if the sweet scent filling his nostrils was Eric, fresh from a shower, or some early blooming shrub. “It’s pretty.”

“That was real sweet of you, Jack.” There was a slight tremor shading Eric’s tone in melancholy.

“I wanted to make a good first impression,” Jack said gently, straightening from the car and hoping like hell Eric didn’t bolt. He stopped in the middle of the road. It still wasn’t his decision. But he could meet him halfway. “Missed you today—yesterday.”

Eric seemed to falter and Jack’s heart stopped. He didn’t breathe again until Eric started toward him, squaring his jaw as though he were going into battle, then absolutely ruining the effect by picking his way gingerly across the asphalt. When he stopped, he was so close Jack imagined he could feel the warmth of his body across the inches that separated them. He never wanted it to leave.

“Are you mad?” Eric asked.

The southern twang was stronger here, dipped in sweet tea and the heat of the south, and Jack wondered if it could stay just a little while, for him. “I was worried.”

Eric deflated, eyes cast downward. “I’m sorry about that.” He shivered.

“Are you cold?” Jack took a step forward and then froze; _no. Not yet._

“Yeah,” Eric shivered again, rubbing his arms. “Still gets chilly at night.” He seemed to hesitate, then lifted one bare foot and tapped Jack’s shin. “Need my fluffy socks.”

“Didn’t think to bring them,” Jack said, his voice so low and soft, Eric seemed to sway forward just to catch it.

“Need my Canadian space heater too.” Eric looked up then, definitely remorseful behind the thick swath of lashes, but Jack thought he could see a flicker of hope hidden there as well.

It was enough.

He opened his arms and Eric stepped into them with a desperate gasp that pierced his heart.

Jack didn’t know how long he held him there, in the middle of the road, breathing him in, hands roaming over his shoulders, his back, and lower. Taking inventory, filling his soul. “Missed you, baby,” he whispered in his hair.

Eric shuddered, hands knotting in the hem of Jack’s shirt before he surged upward, mouth finding Jack’s in the dark, whimpering when Jack gently palmed the back of his head.

Jack kissed him, fear and frustration and worry coloring his movements. Eric’s lips tasted faintly of salt and Jack wanted to kill someone for making him cry—until he realized it was probably _him_ , and then he wanted to step outside of his body and beat his own ass for hurting him. His zealous one-mindedness, his inability to fully let people in, his complicated relationship with words… Jack had had more than seventeen hours to consider what might have made Eric flee, and it had been more than enough time to make a lengthy list. He pulled away only to cradle Eric’s face between his hands, dotting kisses along his nose and cheeks, gently setting him aside after one last lingering press to the corner of his mouth.  

Eric frowned in confusion. “Jack?”

Jack ran his hands through his hair, then scrubbed his face, palms itching for softly tanned skin. A taste would never be enough. “I can’t be touching you when we do this.”

Eric sucked in a quick breath. “When we do what?”

“Talk.” Jack immediately broke his own rule to stroke Eric’s cheek in reassurance. It was cool under his fingers and he wanted to nuzzle warmth into the soft skin. _Soon._ “We are going to talk. I have some things I need to say to you.” There was a flash of fear in Eric’s eyes, and then resignation, and Jack hated himself all over again.

Eric nodded. “I need to say some things to you, too.” He surprised Jack then, when he grabbed one of his hands and pulled. “Let’s get out of the street though.”

Jack followed him down the little paved path in front of the house, and then across the dewy grass, as Eric led him through a gate and into the back yard. Although it was too dark to see much, Jack thought he could make out rose bushes lining the fence and a large grill near the back porch. Their destination, though, was apparently a large round trampoline in the center of the grass.

“Am I being punished?” He quipped when Eric vaulted easily over the edge. The bed bounced under his weight.

“Shut up and get up here,” Eric smiled, flopping onto his back near the center. When Jack was settled next to him, Eric found his hand, winding their fingers together. “I used to sleep out here in the summer. Look at the stars. It’s a good spot for reflection.”

Jack squeezed his hand, thumb rubbing Eric’s wrist in slow strokes. “Why did you leave?” Beside him, Eric tensed.  

“I—” Eric shook his head, his free hand coming up to cover his eyes. “I panicked,” he mumbled.

Jack waited, but when he didn’t continue, he prodded. They had come this far and he wanted nothing unsaid, even if it was painful. “But why? Was it something I did? My mom and dad?”

“What? No!” Eric slapped the trampoline bed and it quavered. “It was _all_ me. Me being my usual anxious, stupid self.”

Jack squeezed his fingers again. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid.”

“I am, though,” Eric scoffed, and the venomous self-loathing caught Jack off guard. Eric’s temperament had always been so easy going, his bright, quick laughter, even his jealousy and possessiveness tinged with affection. Jack felt off balance faced with such a departure from the Eric that was familiar.

 “You’re not,” Jack argued. “You’re smart, and funny, and kind.”

“Jack—”

“And loving and fair and beautiful and talented and—” Jack rolled onto his side, the better to pummel Eric with his fervent earnestness. “Bitty, look at me.”

Eric rolled too, settling a finger on Jack’s mouth when he tried to continue. “Stop.” But he was smiling, and for the first time since Jack arrived, the band around his chest began to ease.

“Make me.” He tongued the pad against his lips with a slow grin.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Eric admonished softly, a faux sternness deepening the eleven between his brows. “I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you.”

“Oh. Pardon me. Do carry on.” But Jack kissed the finger again anyway, then thought _what the hell_ and laced their free hands together, cuddling them against his chest. Nobody was going anywhere until the air was clear.

“You’re incorrigible.” Eric’s eyes sparkled with fondness and Jack was weightless.

“You love me—” Jack grinned and then froze, his mouth working, trying to suck the words back inside.

Eric’s eyes fell to their joined hands. “I do,” he said so softly Jack almost didn’t hear.

“Eric,” Jack breathed.

“See?” Eric shrugged as he scoffed again. “Stupid.”

Had he been watching, Jack thought, maybe Eric would have seen the way he fucking _lit up_ at the words, like a switch had been flipped. The puzzle pieces that made up Jack’s life slotted perfectly into place in that moment, and filled him with a more profound sense of happiness and satisfaction than any hockey award ever had. Ever could. “That’s handy, actually.” He bumped their joined fists under Eric’s chin, silently begging him to meet his gaze, then smiling gently when he did. “Because I love you too.”

Eric inhaled sharply, eyes darting over Jack’s face, clearly waiting for the punchline. “What?”

“I love you.” _God_ it felt good to say it. Jack was never going to stop saying it.

“You don’t,” Eric shook his head, but his hands squeezed Jack’s tightly enough to hurt.

“I do. I love you, Eric Bittle-Zimmerman.” He ducked his head to kiss Eric’s topmost knuckle. “And I don’t plan to ever stop.”

Jack wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they were kissing and any remaining fear and tension bled away. He wrapped his arms around Eric and rolled to his back, the weight of his smaller body familiar and wonderful and perfect.

Eric broke away and laughed, breathless, kissing his face enthusiastically. His eyelids, his forehead, his nose, his chin. “Jack, _Jesus_ ,” he punctuated each word with a kiss. “I love you so much. I thought—” He didn’t finish, eyes shining.

Jack pushed his hands under Eric’s worn t-shirt, thrilling at the silky warmth under his fingertips. _Finally._ “I love you—” He was prevented from continuing because Eric was devouring him again, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, tongue plunging into his mouth, possessing him. Jack grunted in frustration when Eric abruptly lifted his head. They were both breathing harshly, and even in the darkness he could see the deep flush of Eric’s cheeks. “What?”

Eric kissed him swiftly and then sat up, straddling his hips with his knees. He frowned at Jack’s t-shirt and pushed it up and out of his way so he could rest his hands on the hard planes of his stomach. “We have to finish talking first.”

“We were talking,” Jack grumbled, reaching for him.

Eric swatted his hands away. “Jack Zimmermann, I may love you— _Lord_ , do I love you—but we were _not_ talking. We were having sex.”

“Last I knew, sex included nudity and dicks,” Jack muttered, tentatively laying his hands on Eric’s thighs and grinning at the dramatic eyeroll his husband shot his way. _His husband._ Why was that suddenly the most thrilling thing of all?

 “Liar.”

The honeyed tone and evocative gaze shot straight to Jack’s balls and he groaned. “Don’t look at me all bossy and gorgeous or I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“I’m sorry.”

The sincerity of the apology caught Jack off guard and he froze, but Eric barreled ahead before he could respond.

“I’m sorry I left the way I did. Like I said—I panicked. Your mom was so sweet, so excited for us, and your dad. You _dad,_ ” Eric shook his head. “I loved them and they were everything I could have ever wanted, everything I’ve ever dreamed about.” He smiled sadly and pressed one palm to the center of Jack’s chest. “Just like you.”

Jack’s hands tightened on his legs. “I don’t understand.”

“But it wasn’t real,” Eric said in a rush. “Because I loved _Jack Zimmermann_ before I ever even met him, and that man was a lie. I made him up in my head, and the _real_ Jack Zimmermann was…” He shrugged, voice shaky. “The real Jack Zimmermann was somehow even better.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “Bits.”

“No, let me finish,” Eric admonished. He seemed to be carefully considering his words, which Jack appreciated and would reciprocate very soon.

He studied him as he sat there, Eric’s blonde hair strobed in moonlight, his dark eyes luminous. His lips had been kissed plush by Jack’s own mouth, and Jack knew there would never be anything or anyone that would affect him as easily, as absolutely, just by _being_. His hands trailed up Eric’s thighs to rest at his waist, waiting for the moment he could pull him back into his arms, show him how much he loved him. In every way. His heart raced with anticipation—it felt like a wedding night, like the most important night of their life.

“When I took my phone and laptop in for Dadery to record—”

“Wait, what?” Jack interrupted, thinking he must have missed something important. “What?” He asked again.

Eric blinked. “The serial numbers. When I took the stuff from the Apple store in for him to add to the book, he said you…” He trailed off at Jack’s bewildered expression. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you.”

Jack frowned. “Dadery the attorney. He made you bring in the, the,” he swallowed, anger bubbling slow and steady to the surface. “He’s recording everything I bought you? The car, the laptop, the phone? Everything?”

Eric shrugged lightly, but Jack could see the lingering humiliation in his eyes. “I thought you knew, that it was part of the plan.”

“Eric—”

“But your parents—“ Eric swiped his eyes with the back of one hand. “Your parents don’t have a serial number, they can’t be written down in that damn yellow ledger for me to ‘ _make restitution’_ ,” he air quoted. “If I screw up. And your mom bought me all of those nice things, and I couldn’t, I didn’t—”

Jack surged upward and gathered him close, pushing his face into the crook of his neck, murmuring soothing nonsense into his ear while he dug his phone from his pocket.

He speed dialed Georgia.

Eric started when he heard her pick up and tried to pull away but Jack held him fast. He shuddered against him when Jack spoke.  

“George, Dadery is fired. As of tonight. If there’s a file on Eric, I want it. Tomorrow.” His mouth tightened as he listened to her speak. “No. Burn it.” He toyed with the hair at Eric’s nape, rubbing his cheek against his temple. “There is no PR campaign. My life is not a contract. _Eric_ is not a contract.” He listened again, her sleepy reassurance settling the anger. “Thanks, George. I owe you. Sorry I woke you.” He hung up and exhaled, willing the remaining rage to drain away into the dark, not wanting anything to spoil this night.

“You didn’t know.” The words were mouthed against his neck, soft lips coming up to gently kiss his ear, the bolt of his jaw, feathering across his cheek until all he could see, could feel, was _Eric._ “You didn’t know,” Eric sighed, kissing him deep.

Jack let Eric’s relief pour through him, tried to mollify him with hands and mouth, apologizing for things he couldn’t change, making promises for things he could. “I would never have asked for that, or agreed to it. I,” he laughed suddenly, squeezing Eric so hard he gasped. “I thought I was the luckiest goddamn fucker on the planet!” When he leaned back Eric was smiling shyly. “Why would I ever want to risk losing you?”

Eric wrinkled his nose. “Overgrown sap.”

“You have _no_ idea,” Jack grinned. He gave him a quick kiss and tossed him off his lap, the trampoline bouncing wildly as he scooted to the edge.

“Wait, where are you going?” Eric laughed, leaning up on an elbow.

“Don’t move.” Jack pointed a stern index finger, grinning at the saucy salute he received in return.

In the car, he snatched up his duffle, digging through his haphazardly packed clothes for the small, black leather box. The gold embossed logo shone in the  moonlight and his heart skipped a beat. Knowing Jack’s luck, the night might still take a horrible turn for the worse, but he couldn’t dredge up any genuine fear. This was real, _they_ were real, and this was a moment that was long past due.

Eric was sitting cross legged in the center of the trampoline when he returned and Jack tried to memorize it—the otherworldly light of two a.m., the quiet chirping of Georgia insects, the sweet smell of grass already green. The way Eric looked at him, soft and openly full of love, for the very first time. He smiled when he thought of all the times he had had this box in his pocket, and had denied them both this happiness because it wasn’t ‘ _right’_.

And yet here he was, crawling across a faded remnant of Eric’s childhood, hungry, sleep deprived, in desperate need of a shower—and bursting with more unbridled joy than he had ever felt in his entire life. 

He couldn’t get down on one knee (he was already on his knees), so he simply faced Eric on their temporary nylon bed, mimicking his position, and held the box between them in his palm.

Eric stared at his hand. “ _Jack_.” He self-consciously twisted the garish die-topped ring on his left ring finger and Jack smiled.

Even through all of this, Eric had never removed it. Jack almost hated to see it go. He carefully opened the box, so there was no mistaking the contents. The two rings nestled inside were just as pretty as the day he had purchased them, and they winked up at him now in the moonlight, like they, too, were happy to finally be free.

“I bought these on our one week anniversary.”

Eric bit his lip, eyes fond. “Seems like a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Jack said softly. “I foolishly thought I had all the time in the world to give this to you, to ask you the most important question I’ll ever ask, of anyone.” He took a deep breath—and then leaped. “Eric Bittle-Zimmermann—will you stay married to me?”

 Eric snorted, and nearly broke Jack’s heart when he had to swipe again at his eyes. His hand was steady, though, when it reached for Jack. He cupped his palm around his cheek, his smile radiant.  

“Yes.”


	22. Moonlight Sonata

_Yes._

For Jack, time stopped in that moment. He meant to say something, or move, or _kiss him—_ but Eric was so damn pretty sitting there in the moonlight that he …couldn’t speak.

Eric cocked his head, grin widening. “Was that not the right answer?”

Jack’s mouth moved before his brain quite caught up. “I, _yes,_ you just—your eyes and,” he waved over their heads. “The _moon._ And I, uh—”

Bitty pitched forward and kissed him, saving him from himself.

Now _that_ was a language Jack could manage, regardless of the fact that if his stomach didn’t stop making loop-de-loops, he was going to hurl. Eric pushed and Jack went—all the way to his back. He grabbed the hem of Eric’s tee and lifted.

Eric dragged his mouth away with a moan. “Not here, my parent’s bathroom faces the backyard.”

“They’re asleep.” Jack encouraged, but wiggling a hand down the back of Eric’s soft, flannel pants instead.

“They might need to pee,” Eric whispered, adorably ferocious while simultaneously leaning into Jack’s touch.

“Then take me to bed.” Jack squeezed his cute little tush for good measure.

“Jesus.” Eric’s head fell forward, knocking into Jack’s chin. “You are in so much trouble, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack grinned and sat up, scooting them toward the edge of the trampoline. “Punish me later, it’s been a long few days.”

Eric laughed when Jack hopped off first and held out his arms. “I’m not a toddler, Jack.”

“Get in here and shut up, Bittle.”

Eric shrugged—and leaped—and Jack caught him with a grunt. “Ya okay there, hoss?”

“I’m a pro athlete, I’m fine,” Jack said tartly, crossing the yard in record speed.

“Wait!”

“What?” Jack considered the porch—it was dark, not in the view of parental bedrooms. There was a chair.

“I forgot the rings.” Eric smiled pleadingly and Jack groaned.

“Can’t we leave them until morning?” He whined.

“I’m not leaving my ring in the back forty of Georgia overnight!”

“You didn’t have a problem leaving my husband in Georgia the past two days,” Jack pointed out helpfully.

Eric pouted. “Just go back.”  

 _Bossy little shit,_ Jack thought, but he went. What else was he going to do for the rest of his life?

It took a bit of negotiating to get in the house without losing his grip, but Jack persevered, remembering a similar struggle outside his apartment, and thinking he might need a lot more practice. By the time they were standing in the middle of Eric’s bedroom, Eric’s thighs still wound tightly round his waist, he was out of breath.

Eric tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Somebody’s been skimping on morning workouts.”

“Somebody’s been eating too much of his own pie,” Jack retorted, pinching Eric’s butt for good measure.

“You like the extra jiggle,” Eric whispered knowingly, leaning forward just enough to fucking _lick_ Jack’s lower lip.

Jack groaned and moved in the direction of the bed. “ _Fuck_ , I do. Now—get naked.” He dropped an unsuspecting Eric on the quilt-topped mattress.

Eric yelped and slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Shhh!” Jack held his index finger to his lips and gave him a stern frown, and then nearly died on the spot when Eric rolled neatly to his knees and cupped him through his jeans.

“You better not be wearing underwear, Zimmermann,” he warned, making quick work of Jack’s fly.

“Of course I’m wearing underwear, I just drove seventeen hours in a clown car!” Jack’s eyes crossed when Eric lifted him from his boxers, hand circling his hardness so perfectly it was almost painful. _“Fuck me.”_

“I’m trying,” Eric muttered, struggling to pull Jack’s jeans over his ass with his free hand. “Feels like someone else has been partaking of the baked goods a little too freely, too.”

“Listen,” Jack bit his lip to hold back a gasp. “I fully plan on retiring one day and becoming a chubby old has been, so you better find a way to enjoy a little extra pudge.”

“Oh I’ll enjoy it, all right.” Eric’s smile was wicked as he ducked to take Jack in his mouth.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Jack remained on his feet through sheer gritty determination.

“Shhh!” Eric popped off long enough to shush him and then went to _town,_ pulling out every dirty, delicious trick he’d learned about all the ways to get Jack off.

“Gotta,” Jack groaned, burying his fingers in his hair. “Back, back—let me—bed!”

Eric released him, giggling as he made room for Jack to collapse beside him. “You must have missed me if you can’t English.”

“Shut up and suck me.” The words might have had more bite if Jack wasn’t completely winded and staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling.

“Poor baby,” Eric murmured, straddling his hips and rocking against him, peppering open-mouthed kisses over his chest. “All alone in that big old apartment, no hot young collegians around to stick their warm, wet—”

Jack covered his mouth with his palm. “Are you going to talk me to death or suck my dick? Because I will give you five thousand dollars to shut up and get on with it.” Eric licked him and Jack jerked his hand away, wiping it on the sheet with a grimace.

“Five thousand, huh? You think old Dadery has a column for dick sucking?” Eric sat up to wiggle out of his t-shirt, his impression of the attorney dead on. “Mr. Bittle, would you say Mr. Zimmermann’s dick takes an inordinately long time to bring to…” He sniffed dramatically. “Fruition?”

Jack snorted and reached for the waistband of his sleep pants. “And your answer would be _‘Gawd, yes, Mr. Dadery, Jack Zimmermann’s dick just lasts and lasts and la—”_

It wasn’t the first time Eric had shut him up with a pillow to the face.

Jack chuckled, laying it beside him on the bed and patting the fluffy surface. “Thanks, Bits, this will come in handy when I get my mouth on your ass.”

“What!?” Eric squeaked, hands grabbing whatever part of Jack was in easy reach.

Jack rather enjoyed the one over his left nipple, but the one under his right arm tickled. He shrugged them off and finished working the flannel PJ’s over Eric’s hips. “You heard me.” He smacked him on the butt for good measure. “Swap me places and get rid of these.”

“No! Wait!” Eric squirmed away from Jack’s hands, but conceded in losing the pants. He tossed them to the floor with a frown. “You can’t do _that_ with my parents right down the hall!”

“What?” Jack ran his hands over all the newly accessible skin, mouth watering. _Finally._

“You know what,” Eric hissed, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

“Eat you out?” Jack whispered and Eric tucked is face into the crook of his own elbow.

“ _Jack_!”

Jack’s hands continued moving, over the firm muscles of his abs, the sharp cut of his hips. “Because I’m going to. Right now.” He sat up to gather him close and gently kissed his ear. “Lie down, baby,” he whispered.

Eric whimpered again, but he went, after a fierce kiss that made Jack’s head spin.

He had done this for Jack, a few times, and while Jack had never reciprocated he had to admit he’d been dying to. Eric’s ass was a thing of beauty: tight and round and perfect and Jack was one thousand percent sure Eric knew about his obsession and used the knowledge to drive Jack crazy at every turn.

Except, now that it was here, laid out in all its glory, all for Jack, he wasn’t quite sure where he wanted to start.

Eric turned his head to blink at him, cheeks still pink. “Need a map?”

 “Fuck you,” Jack murmured, running his palms up the back of Eric’s thighs. It was faint, but Jack could feel him trembling and it settled his own stomach in the oddest way; maybe because it meant they were in this together, that trust went both ways. “Nervous?”

Eric gasped when Jack’s hands spread his thighs. “Are you going to make fun of me if I say yes?”

“That depends, are you going to make fun of me if I suck at this?” Jack tentatively touched him, one finger, lightly, lightly lightly.

“Since sucking is the optimal skill here, I don’t think I’ll be complaining—” Eric broke off on a quiet moan when Jack dipped down to taste.

“Smart ass,” Jack managed to say before he dove right in.

It was weird and good and scorchingly hot, and Jack wondered what other things he might learn that would have Eric making those noises on a regular basis.

Preferably where he could see his face, though. He trailed kisses up his spine, lingering between his shoulder blades and thinking silly, stupid, whimsical thoughts about wings and the perfection in his life named Eric Bittle.

Eric Bittle, who was currently wrung out beneath him, panting soft little chirps that both made Jack laugh and filled him with lust. “I don’t want you to come like that,” he said against the back of Eric’s neck, breathing hard and stopping just shy of saying what he really felt. _I want you to come with me inside of you, wearing my ring._

When he swallowed his pride and forced out the words, Eric fairly melted.

“Me too,” he said as Jack claimed his mouth.

There were rings slid onto fingers, with shy smiles and chaste kisses, followed by an impromptu scavenger hunt for an old bottle of lube in Eric’s childhood nightstand—which Jack snickered over until Eric threatened to withhold dick for the next six months. Then several trials of different body placements to minimize the squeaky springs, but after that they were _there_ and for Jack, at least, the rest of the world could fuck right off into oblivion.

He was finally home.


	23. Grilled

“Are you nervous?” Eric kissed the barely-there dent in Jack’s chin.

Jack yawned and pulled him closer. “No, I’m tired. And I would still be sleeping if someone would stop mauling me.”

“Mauling you, huh?” Eric tucked his head under Jack’s chin. He was nearly vibrating with energy.

“Are _you_ nervous?” Jack smiled. What was there to be nervous about? They were already married. Eric’s parents hadn’t even known it was…less than authentic, so as far as they were concerned, Jack was supposed to be here—or at least supposed to be with Eric.

“Maybe a little.” The words were muffled.

Jack’s hands dropped to his butt. “Want me to distract you?”

Eric’s head popped up so fast his temple bounced off Jack’s jaw. “No! Lord. My mama is probably in the kitchen cooking, right this minute.”

“But we’re already naked,” Jack whined, words just above a whisper.

“That’s your fault, mister.” Eric said ferociously. “I _told_ you to put some clothes on before we went to sleep.”

“Please?” Jack batted his lashes and Eric snorted.

“You’re a terrible flirt Jack Zimmermann and I’m getting out of this bed.”

He moved to roll away, but Jack caught him around the waist and threw the covers over their head. “Okay, I’m a little bit nervous.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed on his face, searching for deceit. Finding none, he melted. “Jack.” He touched his cheek. “I’m over the moon right now. You got nothin’ to worry about with my mama.”

“What about Coach?” Jack hadn’t been nervous—hadn’t thought beyond getting to Eric and making him understand that Jack was never going to survive without him. He hadn’t had time to consider what it would be like meeting Eric’s parents for the first time, whether they would like him or approve. Whether he was good enough. He leaned forward and kissed Eric’s forehead. “He’s going to hate me, isn’t he?”

“He’ll come around,” Eric shrugged. “And you never know, he might surprise us.” His fingers trailed down Jack’s stomach, before flitting away.

 _Little shit,_ Jack thought, closing his eyes with a heartfelt groan. “Why can’t I just have one little fuck?”

“Jack Zimmermann!” The admonishment lost its punch when Eric dissolved in a fit of giggles.

Jack stuck his lip out as far as he dared without feeling completely ridiculous. “I like your dick,” he grumbled.

Eric’s smile was blazingly bright. “I like yours too, sweetheart, but you’re gonna get out of this bed and put on some clothes and go meet your new family. You can have all the dick you want when we get home.”

Jack froze. “Shit.”

“What?” Eric’s smile faltered.

“No. No, no—” Jack kissed him, swift. “Yes, to all of that. I just, um.” He swallowed. “I never thought about them being my, you know… _family_.” He felt lightheaded and his fingers tightened on Eric’s waist.

Then it was Eric’s turn to close his eyes, and he slapped one hand across them for good measure. “Shit.”

“What?” Jack grinned; _Jesus_ he was cute.

“I’m about to give you one little fuck.” He glared at Jack through his fingers. “How do you _do_ that?”

Jack was half hard and fully breathless in an instant. “I’m a stud,” he whispered, wagging his eyebrows and making Eric laugh again—before he very, very quietly dismantled him in the peaceful dawn of a Georgia morning.

_/ \\_

“Jack, why don’t you help me with the grill?” Coach was at the back door, holding a semi-lethal looking barbecue fork and probably all of Jack’s dignity.

“Sure.” Jack ignored Eric’s panicked expression. He followed Coach into the yard, unable to hold back a smile when he spotted the trampoline.

“Something funny?” Coach asked, opening the grill and passing Jack the fork.

 _At least I have the weapon,_ Jack thought. “Just happy, I guess,” he said. When Coach eyed him skeptically, he waved the fork around to indicate the yard. “It’s nice here. Pretty. And quiet.”

Coach nodded, seemingly satisfied, and went back to fiddling with the grates under the grill hood. “It is. A might different from where you’re from, I’m guessing.”

“Some.” Jack watched him set a pile of charcoal in a pyramid, lighting it from several angles. “Not gas?” He asked; his father’s huge, stainless steel gas grill was Bob’s pride and joy.

“Nah, I like that burnt charcoal taste,” Coach winked. “Suzanne,” he nodded toward the kitchen window. “She wants me to make the switch. Says charcoal has been found to cause cancer in the state of California.” He used his fingers to add air quotes. “ _Everything_ causes cancer in the state of California, far as I can tell.”

Jack chuckled. “True.”

The silence between them lengthened as the fire blazed and died, the coals already shifting to grey when Coach spoke again. “We were surprised, about all this.”

He didn’t clarify, but Jack didn’t need him to. “So was I.” Coach wasn’t fast enough to hide his surprise and Jack grinned. “Eric kind of bowled me over.”

Coach’s laugh was booming, his shoulders softened when he finally shook his head. “He does have a way of doing that. Always was a spitfire, even as a little boy. Went ninety to nothing with no brakes and half a map—used to drive Suzanne batty.” He trailed off, pensive. “I tried to make him play golf—did he ever tell you that?”

Jack shook his head.

“Thought it was _manlier_ than skating.” Coach twirled a finger about his waist. “But he could still wear pastels and fancy prints.”

Jack smiled; Bitty would rock golf course fashion, of that there was no doubt.

“He hated it.” Coach’s tone was flat and he sighed. “It wasn’t about the clothes, as it turned out.”

Jack watched the emotions play across his face. “No, it wasn’t.” He studied the trampoline again, and the neatly marked garden, waiting for seed. “He’s good.” He met Coach’s eyes. “Hockey. He’s really good.”

Coach nodded. “He is. Damn kid’s been good at everything he ever set his mind to.” He scratched his head, the hair thinning enough Jack could see scalp. “Except school,” Coach snorted. “He couldn’t care less about his schoolwork.”

“That hasn’t changed,” Jack grinned. “But we’re managing.”

“Yeah?” Coach grunted. “Well then you’ve already accomplished more than I ever could.”

It was quiet again; the coals would soon be ready for the neatly shaped hamburgers and thick cuts of steak waiting just inside the kitchen. Jack would offer to go get them, but he sensed Coach wasn’t quite finished with him yet.

“We never had much money. Dicky, he—” Coach stirred the coals, spread them over the bottom of the grill. “He never made much fuss over it. Always had a summer job, even when he was competing. Paper route, bagged groceries, mowed lawns. Being a teacher’s kid, well, he kind of had to.” Coach finally met Jack’s gaze. “Dicky always did like nice things, and we never could afford them. Oh,” Coach waved away Jack’s burgeoning frown. “We never wanted for anything either. But he’s not—we’re not—” he trailed off. “Fancy.”

Jack thought about his parents’ beautiful home, about a childhood in which he had never known what it was to think about finances. He understood on an intellectual level that he had been blessed, but he also knew he would never _really_ know what it was to be financially unstable, wanting. “My dad.” He had to clear his throat and start again. “My parents, they both had their own money when they met. I knew I was different than a lot of the other boys in juniors, obviously, but I was always more worried about the comparisons with my dad than how much he had in the bank.” He studied his hands, feeling strangely bereft. “The money never mattered. I just wanted to play.”  

He jumped when Coach reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “I know, son. But.” He sighed. “You and Dicky come from different backgrounds, different people. Makes things hard.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

They studied each other for a long moment. “Did you make him sign a prenup?”

The question was bold and unexpected and Jack sucked in a quick breath; he didn’t know how much Eric had told them about Dadery, about everything Jack himself hadn’t known. “I didn’t think I did. My attorney—former attorney—he might have made Eric feel otherwise.” It was the best explanation he could offer, having never seen the paperwork himself, and he wasn’t going to lie. “I never wanted that though, and I’m taking care of it.”

Coach sighed again and turned to stir the coals. “Might be smart just to leave it. It’s a lot of money.”

“Eric’s more important to me than money.”

Coach stiffened and faced him. “Dicky’s a good boy, but he’s young and he’s always jumped in headfirst, no matter the challenge.” He laughed suddenly, and wiped his eyes. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”  

Jack smiled; he probably understood Coach better right now than he understood himself. He’d spent an unhealthy amount of time recently, thinking about all the ways Eric was perfect, and all the ways Jack didn’t measure up. "Eric’s smart, and he knows what he wants. But he’ll do the right thing if it kills him.” He looked out over the bright green yard, giving Coach a second to pull himself together. “I admire that about him.”

Coach chuckled. “Me too.” He stuck out a hand, the fingertips dark with charcoal dust. “You’re a good man, Jack.”

Jack clasped his palm, eyes stinging. “Not always, but I promise I’ll try.”

Coach chuckled and waved him toward the door. “You are. I wouldn’t expect Dicky to choose less.”

Jack stopped him before he opened the screen door. “I’m not going to leave him, not willingly, and definitely not destitute.” The back of his neck burned, but he plowed through the discomfort, needing this man, his _father-in-law,_ to understand that Eric was the single most important thing in Jack’s life. He meant more than hockey, more than anything. “Whatever I have, or will ever have, is Eric’s.”

Coach gripped his shoulder again and squeezed. “I’m hungry. You hungry?”

Jack could use a drink, actually, but he noted a new lightness in Coach’s step when he stepped into the kitchen. “Yeah,” he said to the empty doorway, and then wrapped his arms around a waiting Eric and buried his nose in his golden hair. “I’m hungry.”

Eric tipped his head back to study him and then smiled, apparently satisfied with what he found. “Same, handsome. And boy are you in for a treat! Mama made peanut butter pie!”

Jack wrinkled his nose. “I changed my mind.”

“You.” Eric swatted his butt and then blushed when his mother clucked her tongue.

“Land’s sake, Dicky, mind your manners.” She winked at Jack as she squeezed past. “Don’t you worry, Jack, there’s pecan pie too.”

Her eyes were slightly red, and Jack suspected both she and Eric had been hovering at the window, sending little prayers and good will into the back yard. He caught her by her apron and kissed her cheek, grinning at her flustered expression. “I’ll try both.”

“Charmer,” she laughed. “Now go wash up. And don’t take all day, I’d like to eat before I’m dead!” She added when Eric rather gleefully pulled Jack down the hall. When they were gone, she tilted her head at Coach, who was watching from his perch at the kitchen sink. “So?”

Coach downed the rest of the water in his jelly jar and shrugged, nonchalant. “He’ll do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I ever mentioned that I love Jack Zimmermann?


	24. What's Mine is Yours and What's Yours is Mine

**_TMZ Sports SPECIAL REPORT_ **

_TROUBLE IN PARADISE??_

_Jan P. Jones, March 3, 2017_

_Hold onto those wedding gifts a bit longer, folks! After weeks of adorable selfies and affectionate exchanges on social media, has the famed Falconers’ forward called it quits with his much younger spouse? If these photos of a relaxed Jack Zimmermann buying bedding with a pretty brunette are any clue, it would seem this hockey marriage is already on ice!_

_/ \\_

 **_George:_ ** _Maybe don’t watch SportsCenter until we talk._

Jack frowned and turned the screen in Eric’s direction. They had just touched down in Providence, having taken the last flight out of Athens. Eric’s parents would be driving the car back over the weekend, after Jack refused to let Eric drive it back alone—and Eric refused to let Jack miss another day of practice. Coach had been the one to suggest he and Suzanne bring it up, when the Bittle-Zimmermann negotiations appeared to reach a stalemate.

“Well now I’m definitely going to check,” Eric quipped, but he squeezed Jack’s knee. He had barely thumbed open a browser when he let out an indignant squawk.

“What?” Jack’s stomach sank. His mind stumbled over a fairly limited number of possibilities; he had already openly embraced the most un-Jack-like behavior he could have ever imagined, when he married Eric. Their continued candidness on their joint social medias had circumvented all but the most rabid tabloid interest. He took the phone from Eric and quickly scanned the headline. He squinted at the grainy photo taken in a parking lot in rural Pennsylvania and grinned. “To be fair, I was buying bedding.”

“For my _mother_ ,” Eric huffed, snatching the phone back. He scrolled through the brief article, mumbling under his breath.

The overhead _ding_ signaled they could remove their seatbelts and prepare to disembark, and Jack exhaled in relief; he was home, Eric was with him, and a million gossip rags could misjudge his life for all he cared. He kissed Eric’s temple. “Stop reading that.” He stood and retrieved their carryon’s from the overhead bin.

“Oh my _lord,_ you should see what some of these,” Eric glanced around and then leaned closer so he could whisper. “ _Hussies_ are saying about you.”

Jack chuckled at his incensed expression. “Got your back up do they?”

“Hmph.” Eric huffed again and shouldered the backpack Jack held out toward him. “I have half a mind to reply. Like this one!” He trust the phone under Jack’s nose.

Jack’s brow raised as he read the vividly descriptive comment. “Is that anatomically possible?”

“Not with the size of your ass, no,” Eric muttered and walked up the aisle ahead of him.

Jack caught up with him in the jet bridge. “I thought you liked my ass.”

“Huh?” Eric blinked and then punched him in the arm. He tucked the phone in his pocket and slid a hand through the crook of Jack’s elbow. “Stop fishing for complements, Mr. Zimmermann. There’s a whole TMZ comment section full of them if your ego is flagging.”

“According to those comments, _nothing_ about me ‘flags’ ,” Jack grinned.

Eric shook his head sadly. “If they only knew.”

Jack nodded at the attendant waiting by the door, swallowing down his bark of laughter. “If you have any complaints, Mr. Bittle, you should take them up with management.”

Eric spun on his heel, navigating the glossy floor in reverse. “I _am_ management.”

Jack did laugh then, reaching for him and tucking him into his side. “Come here before you run someone over.”

Normally Jack would have made his way quickly through the terminal, head down, focused on escape. Maybe it was his good mood, or the way Eric had taken the unpleasant side effect of being _Jack Zimmermann_ and made it fun, another memory, but Jack found himself smiling at people, enjoying the day, being present as they left the airport. He signed several autographs and took twice that many selfies, and he held Eric close for all of it. He made it a point to introduce him, warmed at how Eric would blush and push him away, but then beam two seconds later when he thought Jack wasn’t looking. Jack kissed him, a quick peck he didn’t plan, when a woman asked him to hold her baby and to do so he needed Eric to take his bag. He felt the rustle of excitement from the small crowd a split second before he realized why, and then decided _fuck it_ and found a reason to kiss him at every stop. _Take that, TMZ,_ he thought.

By the time they finally reached the exit and a very patient Tony—who Jack had had the foresight to call for a pick up before they left Georgia—George had already texted.

 **_George:_ ** _I see you ignored my advice._

 **_George:_ ** _How shocking._

Jack quickly typed out a reply, smiling when Eric threw his arms around the waiting driver, snuggling his head into Tony’s muscular chest.

 **_Jack_ ** _: I have no idea what you’re talking about ;)_

“Mr. Bittle.” Tony patted Eric’s back, ever so slightly awkward but obviously charmed. “Good flight?”

“I _hate_ flying,” Eric exclaimed. He released him—reluctantly—to allow Tony to open the hatch. “But it was okay until we landed and heard the news.” He stage whispered from behind one hand. “Jack’s marriage is on the rocks.”

“You don’t say?” Tony clucked his tongue sadly. “That’s a shame. And I heard his husband was a real looker.”

“Don’t you start.” Jack warned with a smile. He tossed his bag in the back and smacked Eric on the butt as he passed. “Get in the car, squirt. I’m tired and I want to go home.”

Eric rubbed his backside, giving Tony a sage look. “There’s a rumor he has a temper, too.”

Jack grinned and shook his head, closing the passenger door on Tony’s bright laughter. God forbid they ever _did_ break up—given a few more weeks, Eric would have every last person in Jack’s life wrapped around his little finger.

_/ \\_

Jack’s favorite part of being married to Eric—and there were a _lot_ of favorite parts—was waking up to find him there, beside him. He had never considered himself to be especially tactile, he didn’t _cuddle_ , but there was something about Eric’s skin that he craved. It was more than his warmth or his uniquely _Bitty_ scent. It was more than the way he had wound around Jack’s body and mind and heart, so effortlessly Jack still wasn’t sure how it had happened. It was all of those things and none of those things. When he wasn’t there, Jack was… empty.

Jack awoke early their first morning home, and unable to fall asleep again, he stayed in bed instead of going for a run. He studied Eric's head on the pillow next to his, his hair an absolute wreck, the only body part not covered by the comforter. Even though he was turned away, he had his bare feet tucked behind him, toes buried between Jack’s calves. It reminded Jack that he needed to pick up some fuzzy socks this week while he was out of town.

He frowned; he hated leaving so soon. He was happier than he had ever been, but there was still a lingering anxiety that he hadn’t completely conquered. Such was the life of a hockey player, though, and of anyone, Eric would understand. It would be at least a week before they were together again, three away games in a row, and it already felt like forever. There would be no quiet mornings of sleepy sex or shared showers on the road. No delicious breakfasts prepared by a chirping husband who probably needed to be kissed more and coddled less.

Jack pulled him closer anyway; he would coddle if he damn well pleased, and Eric would protest and fight and mutter under his breath about Jack’s overprotectiveness, and Jack would ignore him and then buy him something outrageously expensive—or silly and useless. Or both. He smiled when Eric swatted his hands away from his abdomen, mumbling about the early hour (and complaining about Jack’s libido, which, _shut up_ ). He rolled out of bed instead of insisting, taking his time to gather clean clothes, stripping naked while standing in full view of the room's only other occupant.

When Eric joined him in the shower less than five minutes later, Jack knew he had won.

_/ \\_

Eric stared at the debit card on the counter.

“It won’t bite,” Jack teased, taking their dishes to the sink. As he loaded the dishwasher he snuck another peek; Eric was pushing at the corner of the thin, plastic card—Falconers’ blue, of course—but he had yet to say anything or pick it up. Jack sighed and gathered him close from behind, stomach settling when Eric leaned into him. “You know I’m not arguing about this, right?”

“I know.” Eric touched the card again, running a fingertip over his name, _Eric R. Bittle_. “I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Jack dropped a kiss to the top of his head and turned back to start the dishwasher. “I’m not always here and you need access to our bank account. Our new checks will be here sometime this week.” He felt more than saw Eric start. “What?”

Eric was biting into his bottom lip. “Why?”

Jack dried his hands on a towel, and then folded it neatly over the swinging bar Eric had had him install over the sink. “You know we’re married, right?” He smirked, wiggling the fingers of his left hand.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Smart ass. You know what I mean. That’s,” he waved at the card. “Not my money.”

“It is now.” Jack shrugged, matter of fact. “The day I married you, you became a multi-millionaire.” He ruffled Eric’s hair as he passed; he needed to pack. “Welcome to the club.”

He didn’t wait to see if Eric took the card, but it was gone when he left a little later for the rink. (He did get an extra long, extra handsy kiss on his way out the door.)

_/ \\_

 **_Jack:_ ** _How was class?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Boring af._

 **_Eric:_ ** _We watched a documentary on the Battle of the Bulge_

 **_Eric:_ ** _You would have loved it_

Jack snorted. _Are you saying I’m boring as fuck?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _If the millionaire’s shoes fit_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Then what’s that say about you?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _That I have expensive taste_

“Little Zimms coming to game?” Tater nudged Jack’s elbow.

Jack shook his head. He needed to wrap this up before they took off. “He has class, and games too, so no. Not this week.”

“Shame,” Tater said, his face uncharacteristically mournful.

“Why?” Jack grinned. _Taking off, love you._

 **_Eric:_ ** _love you, baby. Break a leg!_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Except don’t!_

“Thirdy says Lil’ Zimm’s booty is good luck charm.”

Jack glanced across the aisle at Thirdy, brow raised.

“I said all that booty you’ve been _getting_ is our good luck charm,” Thirdy explained, glaring at Tater. “Not _Eric’s_ booty in particular.”

“You are not getting booty with Eric?” Tater scowled at Jack.

“Tater—” Thirdy groaned, but he was drowned out by the team’s guffaws.

“Well, Zimms gettin’ the booty from somewhere, didja see that wrister this morning in practice?”

“Zimms—if you got a booty hook up that _ain’t_ Eric, you gonna share deets? Asking for a friend!”

“Quiet everyone, gotta call my contact at TMZ!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jack chuckled. He patted Tater’s leg when he continued to frown. “Eric’s the only booty I need, Tater.”

 “D’awwww!”

Jack blinked at the bright flash from Poots' too close phone.

“Jesus, Zimms. Smile sometimes. This looks like a damn booking photo.”

“Did you insta that? I wanna regram it!” Called a voice from the back of the plane.

“Don’t you dare,” Jack pointed a finger in Poots’ direction.

“Whoops,” Poots said sadly. “My finger slipped.”

When they landed in Tampa two hours later, Jack had more Instagram notifications than he wanted to think about and a tagged photo from Eric. In it he was staring over his shoulder in front of the full length mirror in their bedroom, hip cocked so the shorts he wore pulled tight across his butt. The caption read: _Did someone say booty?_  

Jack laughed. He would have to ask someone how to _regram_ later; for now he liked the post and commented with one word and a single heart: _Mine._

Twenty-two Falconers liked his reply.


	25. Paging Dr. Bittle

There had been relatively few times in Jack’s career where he couldn’t find his rhythm, where the missed shots and blown opportunities that dominated the evening’s highlight reels featured his name.

 _It was one game_ , he thought as the Falcs left the ice. It was one game out of dozens, and he wasn’t the team—he was one of many and what they did together mattered more than what he accomplished (or didn’t accomplish) alone. This was where he had always struggled, though, feeling far too responsible for things out of his control.

“We’ll get ‘em next time, Zimms.” Marty bumped a fist on his shoulder as he passed him on his way to the showers.

“Yeah.” Jack hadn’t even finished removing his gear, having been waylaid for a lengthy round of post-game interviews. Objectively he understood that his teammates had protected him from that part of the job long enough, but he still wished the first time that he had a mike thrust in his face, it was with the high of a win bolstering his confidence. He went through the motions of undressing and packing his gear, muscle memory taking over while his brain replayed his shortcomings, both on and off the ice.

_How much of the recent interest in your private life has affected your game?_

Jack raked his fingers through his hair, a headache already sinking its claws deep into his temples.

He didn’t check his phone until he was on the bus to the hotel, not ready to read the sympathetic encouragement from his dad or the loving acceptance from his mom. It was the need for Eric that drove him to dig it out of his bag, and when he turned it on, he was rewarded with a long string of live-texting as Eric had watched the game. He skimmed until he got to a colorful stream of disgruntled Bitty sass.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Fuckwits. Like it was your dick out there playing tonight._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Or your asshole._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I mean, personally I like both equally well, but neither one plays hockey._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Well. Not *that* kind of hockey_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Ok I’m a lying liar I like your dick the best._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Don’t tell your asshole._

Jack grinned in spite of his miserable mood and thumbed out a quick reply. _It likes you best too._

 **_Eric:_ ** _As God intended!_

 **_Eric:_ ** _How you holding up?_

Jack rolled his shoulders. _Better now._

 **_Eric:_ ** _The healing waters of Bittle._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Squirt._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Ok, for the last time—STOP_

Jack chuckled. _I can’t help it. When you’re around, fluids follow._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I could take this whole convo in the raunchiest direction rn_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Hold that thought until I get off the bus_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Are you rooming? Cause I can hold a lot of things_

 **_Eric:_ ** _In front of a webcam even_

 **_Jack:_ ** _I am :(  Tater was missing me_

 **_Eric:_ ** _> :(_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Tell Tater your dick has a hockey game day after tomorrow and it needs recharging_

Jack grinned and glanced at the roomie in question, already snoring against the window. _I think he’d be willing to hide in the bathroom for a few. He’s definitely Team Bittle._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Do tell_

 **_Jack:_ ** _What was that you told me about fishing for compliments Mr. Bittle?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Mr. Bittle-Zimmermann to you_

Jack looked up in surprise as the bus lurched to a stop in front of the hotel. _Give me twenty minutes Mr. Bittle-Zimmermann. I’m not done with you yet._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Getting naked as we speak!_

Jack swallowed a heartfelt groan; what he wouldn’t give to be there right now.

Five more days.

_/ \\_ 

The Falconers were hungry when they hit Panther ice.

The Panthers were hungrier.

The thing was—the most _frustrating_ thing—they were ready. Morning skate had been almost soothing in its evenness and familiarity. But a split second of indecision here and a millimeter or two of ice there and the Falconers found themselves ending the evening 0 for 2 on the road.

Jack briefly considered ignoring his phone until he could hide in the hotel bathroom and wallow, but he found himself needing Eric’s soothing presence—even digitally—in the silence on the bus after the players were loaded and the lights went down. In two short months Jack had somehow gone from being self-sufficient, almost isolated, to being half of a whole.

**_Eric: :(_**

**_Eric:_ ** _You know, I’m not normally prone to violence but I have half a mind to come on down to Miami and take care of that douchebag Feeney_

 **_Jack:_ ** _The d-man?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _YES_

Jack grinned, combing through the game in his head, trying to remember any incident in particular. _What did Feeney do?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _He was flirting!_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Feeney. Big guy, wears number 24_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Don’t act like you didn’t notice. He practically felt you up._

 **_Jack:_ ** _KARL FEENEY??_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Don’t shout._

 **_Eric:_ ** _And YES. KARL FEENEY. KARL FEENEY WHO LEANED IN AND WHISPERED IN YOUR EAR DURING THIRDY’S FIGHT_

 **_Eric:_ ** _AND THEN PATTED YOUR ASS_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Feeney did NOT pat my ass_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Oh yes he did and you are in big trouble mister. What did he say?_

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and Karl Feeney had barely spoken to him. Eric was likely manufacturing this entire thing to take his mind off the crummy, lousiness of the night—and Jack loved him so much in that moment his eyes burned. _He said he had no idea I was even up for grabs._

 **_Eric:_ ** _HE SAID WHAT!?_

Jack chuckled to himself; he could practically _hear_ Eric’s indignant shriek. _Yeah. He said he had been pining for a few years now, and if he had only known, I could have been summering in Miami all this time._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Over my dead body_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Karl Feeney is a dead man_

 **_Jack:_ ** _I mean—he said you could watch._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Fuck you. Seriously._

 ** _Jack:_** _Aw, baby, don’t be that way._ Jack settled into his seat with a smile. Eric was the best distraction from all ills. In every way.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Listen. And I do mean L-I-S-T-E-N_

Jack snorted; if Eric was spelling it out, it must be serious.

 **_Eric:_ ** _When you get to that hotel you best figure out a way to get yourself alone because I will be conducting a full body inspection._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Naked._

Jack shifted in his seat, glancing over at Tater who was blessedly oblivious, staring out the window. _I’m still on the bus, short stack. Can you tone it down so I’m not waddling out of here holding my bag in front of my crotch?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _NAKED._

 **_Eric_ ** _: Every._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Inch._

Jack swallowed. His cheeks were flushed, his heart was racing, and he was suddenly very, very glad for the cover of darkness. _You realize I’m not going to be able to ride the newlywed excuse forever, right? Like at some point we have to act like boring old married people who never have sex._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Are you touching yourself right now?_

 **_Jack:_ ** _What? No! I’m on the damn bus!_

 **_Eric:_ ** _You should._

Jack choked back a strangled laugh. _I AM NOT DOING THAT.. Tater is literally right here._

 **_Eric:_ ** _So? Put a shirt over your lap._

 **_Jack:_ ** _I’m making that frown that you hate rn_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Fine. Don’t touch yourself. Imagine me touching you instead._

 **_Eric:_ ** _With my mouth._

Jack made the mistake of thinking if he took a sip from his water bottle, he would look _normal._ Nonchalant _._ Instead, he sucked an entire mouthful of water down his windpipe. He coughed until he wheezed, and Tater had to thump him on the back several times while some smartass behind him shouted for a medic like they were soldiers in a hot zone.

“I’m fine,” Jack wheezed, slapping Tater’s hands away when he tried to feel his forehead.

“You don’t look fine,” Tater said skeptically, eye narrowing on Jack’s face.

“I’m fine,” Jack repeated, waving his phone. “Eric was being funny and I—” Jack realized too late that he’d said too much.

“Let me see!” Tater snatched the phone, and Jack pounced, shoving him bodily against the window and manhandling his hands to his chest before he could look at the screen.  

“Now boys,” Thirdy tutted from behind them. “Jack, share with your brother.”

“Fuck you, Thirdy,” Jack grunted; Tater was grinding his knee in his balls, trying to squirm free. At least the quick burst of terror had taken care of Jack’s lingering arousal.

 “I like jokes.” Tater huffed each word between his teeth. His big meaty paws were starting to sweat and Jack was losing his grip.

“Eric’ll bake you ten pies if you let go,” Jack said desperately.

Tater stilled. “Blueberry?”

“Whatever,” Jack panted. Tater released the phone and Jack slumped back into his seat.

Thirdy leaned over the seatback, meeting Jack’s gaze upside down and contemplative. “Man, that must have been some sext.”

Jack seriously considered walking back to the hotel. “ _I’ll_ bake you ten pies if you shut the fuck up.” He ignored the subsequent catcalling, although he pocketed the three condoms that flew through the dark.

Five miles down the road, Tater punched Jack, hard, in the arm. “Wait. There was no jokes?”

_/ \\_ 

“Well geez, at least promise me they weren’t the cheapos you get in the gas station.”

Jack chuckled, although it took every last ounce of energy he had to do so. He was indeed naked, and had been declared ‘ _fit enough, I suppose’,_ after a lengthy perusal over Facetime by one Dr. Bittle (where Eric had managed to dredge up a lab coat and stethoscope, Jack would never know, but _godDAMN)_. “It’s not like we need them, sweetheart.” He smiled when Eric ducked his head. “Are you blushing?”

“Shut up!”

Jack snorted. “You just got me off from two thousand miles away, without ever laying a finger on me, and wearing nothing but a lab coat! How the hell can you be bashful after that?”

“I don’t know!” Eric moaned, covering his face with one hand. “You’re so fucking hot!”

“ _I’m_ hot? Jesus Christ!” Jack laughed out loud. “Eric—I love you, but sometimes you’re an idiot.”

Eric dropped his hand and gave Jack a droll look. “Gee thanks, honey.”

Jack snickered. “You know what I mean. You’re gorgeous.” He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Even Karl Feeney thinks so.”

“You shut your filthy mouth about Karl Feeney,” Eric warned with a glare.

“You know what my filthy mouth wants right now?”

“ _Jack._ ”

Jack grinned, tired and mellow and wishing like hell this week was over. “It wants to kiss you good night. And then kiss you good morning tomorrow. And the day after that.”

Eric’s answering smile was soft. “And the day after that. I love you, baby.”

“I love you.” Jack stretched and then stifled a yawn. “Text you in the morning, okay?”

“Go put Tater out of his misery,” Eric teased. “And make me sound good! Exaggerate if you have to!”

Jack was still smiling when he pulled the hotel sheets over his shoulders a few minutes later, head sinking into the too-soft pillow. He was just dozing off when his phone vibrated on the nightstand.

 **_Eric:_ ** _Jack?_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Yeah?_

 **_Eric_ ** _: What did Feeney really say when he whispered in your ear?_

Jack smiled, heart full. _He said ‘I heard you got married. Congratulations’._ His phone was silent long enough that he tapped out a follow up. _You still with me?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _< 3 _

**_Eric:_ ** _I guess Feeney can live._


	26. The Right Boy

Jack had just finished on the treadmill in the hotel gym and was on his way back to his room when his phone buzzed. _Bitty._ He grinned and lifted the phone to his ear. “Eric Bittle’s husband.”

Eric’s answering laughter was a bright and happy sound. “I guess I dialed the right boy, then.”

 “I better be the only boy,” Jack growled. He fumbled for the keycard in his shorts pocket.

“Oh don’t pout, sweetheart. You know you’re in my top five.”

“Five? Who are the other four?” Jack was surprised by a sudden spurt of jealousy.

“Mmmm,” Eric hummed. “Sidney Crosby—”

“Stop right there.” Jack interrupted, tossing his gym bag on the bed and turning into the small bathroom. “Crosby’s name is hereby revoked from all future conversations. _And_ your list.”

“But, Jack.”

“Don’t _but Jack_ me. Crosby is out _._ ”

Eric chuckled, soft and gentle. “You were above him.”

“You’re fucking right I’m above him!” Jack scowled at himself in the mirror. _Crosby._

“And what list is this, anyway?”

“Huh?” Jack toed off his running shoes.

“You said Crosby was off my list. What list?” Eric’s voice was muffled and Jack imagined him pulling a shirt over his head.

“You were listing your top five.”

“Wait,” Eric said. “What kind of list did you think we were making?”

“ _You_ were making. I don’t have a list.” Jack put the phone on speaker and propped it against a rolled up towel so he could undress. “And I don’t know. You started it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.” Jack kicked off the last of his clothes and grinned. “I’m naked, by the way. Want to switch to Facetime?”

“Hell yeah!”

Jack chuckled at Eric’s enthusiastic response and thumbed over the glass. He smiled when Eric’s face filled the screen. “Hi.”

Eric propped his chin in his hand and smiled. “Hi yourself.”

Jack fanned his fingers in an upside down wave. “Move back, I want to see you.”

Eric snorted. “Babe, I’m not the one who’s puttin’ on a show right now.” But he adjusted the phone and scooted back against the headboard. He was in their bed in the apartment and Jack thought he had never looked so good.

“There you are.” Jack’s smile grew when Eric blushed. “God, I miss you.”

“You miss me? I miss you!” Eric ran his hands through his hair self-consciously. “I miss you so much I actually googled this afternoon!”

Jack threw back his head and laughed. “You googled me?” He flexed one arm with a leer. “What did you find?”

Eric pursed his lips. “An obscene number of photos of your ass.” He frowned when Jack laughed again. “Which, I _know—_ I should be grateful for—but I’m not! _Everyone_ has access to them!”

“But only you have access to the real thing,” Jack pointed out.

“Hmph.”

Jack turned to start the shower, glancing over his shoulder to find Eric admiring the view. “So what else did you find on Google?”

“Old hockey videos.”

Eric’s eyes flicked downward in a way that gave Jack pause. “Like from the Falcs?” His stomach was uneasy, and suddenly he felt too exposed. He grabbed a towel from the shelf beside the sink and wrapped it around his waist.

“No—Jack. Take your shower. You can call me back later.”

Jack studied him through the small screen. They hadn’t been together all that long, and maybe he was still learning, but he recognized Eric’s distress tells—lower lip bitten red, high color in his cheeks. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Eric shrugged. “Look. It was just old videos. They don’t mean anything.”

They did though, that much was clear, and maybe there was still some navigation before they cleared every hurdle between them. It was almost comforting in a way, to know that there were always going to be things that might be difficult or painful, but that he was the one Eric would come to first. Jack let the towel fall and began to back away. “You don’t have to go, you know. It’ll only be a sec.” When Eric snorted, Jack’s uneasiness began to settle.

“You want to Facetime while you shower.”

“I mean—you’ve seen me shower.” Jack shrugged. “Hell. You’ve _given_ me a shower.”

“Jack!”

“What? You have.”  Jack opened the shower door and winked. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah yeah,” Eric grumbled. He crossed his arms and jabbed his chin at the screen. “Just keep that condensation cleared, Mr. Zimmermann.”

He meant to be perfunctory and quick, he really did. But the knowledge that Eric was watching, that his own steam-wrapped nakedness was on full display, well—it was a longer shower than either of them planned. Eric—breathless and flushed—had the audacity to chirp him while he toweled off.

“Was it good for you?”

Jack chuckled and rolled his neck. He was so fully relaxed now he felt like he could sleep for a week. “I probably could have done without the NHL announcer play by play there at the end.”

“What? I finished first. I felt inspired.”

Jack pulled a t-shirt on over his head and picked up the phone. “You finished first because you’re a cheat.”

“You can’t cheat at orgasms, Jack.”

“Disagree.” Jack left the bathroom and retrieved a protein shake from the pack he had stashed in the mini fridge.

“What was I supposed to do? Abstain? With all that glorious Zimmermann nakedness on full display?”

“Yes!” Jack said sternly. “I didn’t get to see anything!”

“It’s not always about you, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack shook his head with a grin. “I feel so used right now.”

“You’re the one that put a ring on it, number one,” Eric chirped.

“Twice even.” Jack smiled, wishing again he wasn’t a few thousand miles away. “Now tell me about these videos.”

Eric wrinkled his nose. “Stubborn, single-minded…”

“Handsome, loving, doting—”

“You dote?” Eric perked up and then had the grace to blush at Jack’s dry look in response. “Okay, okay, you dote.”

Jack unscrewed the cap on his shake and took a long drink. “So. Videos. Spill.”

Eric sighed. “It was Parse. And you. You and Parse.” He rubbed at his mouth self-consciously. “You were together?”

Jack wished his chest didn’t clench at the question, wished Kent Parsons wasn’t such a minefield of surprise detonations. Maybe there would be a day when he wasn’t; they seemed to get closer every year. “Yeah, he was—” He stopped. Kent was what? His first love? His first kiss? His first sexual partner? He was embedded in Jack’s youth in the same way hockey was, and because of their shared and continued history, it had always been difficult to separate the two. “We were together.”

“Did you love him?” Jack’s hesitation was a split second too long and Eric’s eyes dropped to his lap. “Oh.”

“Bits—”

“No, I asked.” Eric laughed, scratching at the back of his neck. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this. I mean.” He shrugged. “Of course you loved him. I could see it.” His eyes were wet and Jack wanted to kick his own ass. And also Youtube’s.

“Not like this, Eric. I’ve never felt like this before.” He held his breath until Eric finally met his gaze again, and then slowly exhaled, relieved. “What about you?”

Eric froze. “What about me?”

“Who was your first love?” Jack prodded. He watched as Eric sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing down to examine something out of Jack’s line of sight. When Eric’s eyes met his again, they were solemn.

“You.”

 It was a sucker punch and a flood, and Jack cursed the distance that separated them, that would continue to separate them most days of the next several weeks. He needed to hold him, show Eric how important he was—the only important thing—and he needed that for himself too, to know that Eric wasn’t going to cut his losses and run again. “I’m honored,” he managed, voice raw with emotion. “And humbled. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Eric’s smile was still tinged with sadness, but it was also brimming with love. He groaned suddenly, grabbing a nearby pillow and holding it over his face for a beat. “Ugh, I miss you!”

“Same, baby,” Jack sighed. “Same.”

_/ \\_ 

Coming out of the tunnel at United Center and hitting the ice was euphoric for Jack, but not for the usual reasons; after this game, the Falconers were going home.

Jack circled the ice, warm up shots and passes seemingly magical in their accuracy and speed.

“Zimms got game,” Tater teased, thumping him on the shoulder.

Jack knocked their sticks together. “It’s a good night to kick some Blackhawk ass.”

“Is Bittle Booty, yes?” Tater nodded sagely.

Jack closed his eyes and groaned. “Tater, if you’ve been eavesdropping again—”

Thirdy chuckled and tapped Jack’s helmet. “Center ice, behind the boards, loverboy.”

Jack’s eyes flew along Thirdy’s outstretched arm, heart flipping hard in his chest when he spotted a familiar blonde head.

Eric was wearing Jack’s Falconers jersey and a wide smile, Shitty by his side. They both waved excitedly when they saw him.

If Jack could have climbed the boards and kissed him, both of them, he would have.

“That’s some smile, Zimms,” Marty teased, skating into their impromptu huddle. “Is your programming on the fritz?”

“Poor little robot, hasn’t had any dick in a week.”

“Not true, they Facetime and—”

Jack covered Tater’s entire face with his gloved hand. “And we talk about baking and hockey.”

Tater slapped his hand away. “Is not baking,” he said sagely.

Thirdy gripped Jack’s shoulder. “Is this naked baking? Because I think I could get into that.”

“You want to see Zimms naked?” Marty asked, one brow quirked high.

“I’ve _seen_ Zimms naked.”

“Well you better not mean Bitty,” Jack scowled.

“What the _hell_ are you milkmaids yammering about!” Coach Anders boomed.

 They were ten minutes into the first period when Thirdy leaned into Jack’s side and shouted against his helmet. “I don’t want to see Bitty naked!”

Unfortunately, it came at a lull in play, clear as a bell and easily heard by the passing Blackhawks d-man, Trent Josephs. “Jesus Christ, is the entire team gonna go faggot?” He sneered.

Jack’s gloves hit the ice between one breath and the next, and he clocked an unsuspecting Josephs so hard his helmet flew off. The next few seconds were a blur in which Jack got in a few choice punches, and took few more than that, before Marty flung him out of the way and went at Josephs himself.

On the bench, a butterfly bandage holding the skin above his eyebrow together, Jack glanced up just as Thirdy slumped against him, sweaty and grinning. “Fuck. Sorry Jack.” He pounded his fist on Jack’s knee. “But goddamn! Did you see his face when your gloves hit the ice?” Thirdy cackled. “I thought he was gonna piss himself!”

Jack shook his head. “No, I was too busy defending your honor, you jackass.”

“Which I appreciate.” Thirdy chuckled. “Seriously though.” He pounded Jack’s knee again. “That was awesome. I think you knocked his tooth loose!”

Jack couldn’t help but laugh, Thirdy’s excitement contagious, and the buzz of adrenaline dispelled the rest of the anxiety that had followed the unexpected confrontation. He held up his gloved fist, waiting until Thirdy bumped it to say,  “One more minute and then we finish them, okay?”

“You got it, Zimms.”

_/ \\_ 

Jack ducked past the reporters and straight into the showers after the game; he had somewhere to be. He did stop to sign autographs on his way out—the fans didn’t always come first, but they were important and Jack knew he had been sidestepping them since he got married.

“Jack!” Eric waved from behind the ropes, he and Shitty in a lump of fans at the end of the line.

“Is that your husband?” A young girl asked. He was in the middle of signing her jersey and he nodded with a smile.

“Yeah. His name is Eric.”

“I think that’s awesome,” she said quietly, glancing sideways to see if the older woman standing with her overheard. The woman was frowning at her phone, oblivious.

“Thanks,” Jack whispered, giving her a wink and holding his hand out for her cell phone. “Picture?”

“Oh my gosh, yes!” She was nearly vibrating with excitement, and in the resulting photo, Jack couldn’t help but notice that he was too.

Maybe there was something to this Bittle Booty theory of Tater's.

At the end of the line of fans, he spoke to the guard who brought Eric and Shitty through the barrier. And maybe for the first time since they had gotten married, Jack didn’t give a shit what anyone saw or thought—when Eric held open his arms, Jack stepped into them and wrapped himself up in _Bitty._ There were a few soft kisses in there too, until Shitty complained—not about the kissing but about the bright flashes from the cell phones surrounding them.

So Jack grabbed him in a bearhug too.

“How did you even get here,” he finally asked, shouldering his duffle and lacing his and Eric's fingers together.

“I used my debit card,” Eric said proudly, and Jack laughed.

“Awesome.”

“And he even sprang for two rooms,” Shitty nodded. “So you know, you two can,” he stopped and wagged his eyebrows.

Jack grinned. “No Shitty, I don’t know. Can you explain?”

“Well, Jack, it’s like this.” Shitty threw one arm around Jack’s shoulders. “When a boy and a boy love each other very much…”

_/ \\_ 

There were more fans in the hotel lobby, although the concierge chased them away when it seemed like Jack might be overwhelmed, and then an elevator ride to drop Shitty off on his floor, and then finally, _finally,_ Eric and Jack were alone.

Jack grabbed Eric’s face between his hands and kissed him, heartfelt and long.

When they broke apart, Eric exhaled. “Wow.”

“I missed you.” Jack traced his thumb along Eric’s jawline. “A lot.”

The elevator _dinged_ and Eric smiled, slow and sexy. He took Jack by the hand and backed out into the hall. “I think I’m going to need some proof of that, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack followed, mouth dry, his entire body humming in anticipation. “I can do that.”

Eric shrugged, and even that small movement was too sensual for Jack’s poor libido. “Well, if you can’t, we can practice. After all,” Eric winked. “Practice makes perfect.”

Jack pushed him into the wall beside their door and kissed him furiously. “Then I plan to be a very, very slow learner.”

“My kind of guy,” Eric gasped, giving up all pretense of allure and throwing his arms around Jack’s neck. “Jesus, Jack, I—” He rubbed his temple against the stubble on Jack’s jaw. “I need you.”

Jack fumbled for the key when Eric handed it to him, cursing when it took two tries. He didn’t even bother with the safety latch once they were inside; he stripped both himself and then Eric in record time, pushing him toward the bed until there was no place else to go but down.

The first taste was sweet because it was Eric and it was familiar, and because he made desperate little gasps and pleas as he writhed on the sheets, his thighs gripping Jack’s head so hard it became Jack’s own nirvana. Surrounded by, filled with, Eric.

Greedy, greedy, greedy, he needed more, and he left him to dig through Eric’s bag for lube.

“C-minus, Mr. Zimmermann, better step it up,” Eric protested weakly, fighting for breath.

He crawled up Eric’s body with a smirk. “You better find something to hold onto, squirt.”

“Fuck you, Mist—” Eric broke off on a moan.

It was rougher than they usually were, raw and hard and fast, and Jack almost second guessed himself, until Eric’s hips began to twitch as he rode his fingers, seeking more.

Jack wasn’t going to last and he hadn’t even been fucking touched yet. He was on the verge of begging when Eric began to chant.

“More, more more more—”

“Thank God,” he breathed, dipping down to kiss him, tongues meeting, dancing, wet and a little bit wild.

 _No this,_ Jack thought, a few moments of ecstasy later. _This is nirvana._

Sweat cooling on their bodies, Eric’s head cuddled against his chest, Jack tipped his chin up to kiss him. “Eric?”

“Hmm?” Eric yawned, arm tightening around Jack’s midsection.

Jack smiled at him, handsome and small and all, all his. He smoothed his free hand down his side to rest at his hip. “Eric, you weren’t my first. But you’re my last.” Eric’s eyes shone in the moonlight when they met his, and Jack kissed him again. “You’re my last.”


	27. The One With a Bag of Weiners

Jack closed and locked the apartment door behind them, dropping their bags to the floor.

Eric raised his brows. “You just gonna leave those there?”

They had taken the first flight out of Chicago, after a pitifully few hours of sleep.

“Yes.” Jack too one step, then another, eyes glinting as he stalked him across the room.

Eric grinned and took off down the hall.

Jack was tired, but not _that_ tired, and he caught him just inside the bedroom. “You are all mine for the next four days,” he said. “So don’t even think about leaving this room.”

Eric laughed, squirming against Jack’s firm hold. “What about food?”

“Delivery.”

“Somebody’s gotta pay.”

“I’ll hang an envelope of cash on the door.”

Eric dutifully shimmied out of his pants when Jack tugged at them, sighing and curling his arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Jack smiled into the curve of his shoulder. “Me too.” He straightened, taking the hem of Eric’s tee with him and ignoring the dry look he got when he pulled it over his head. “If you wanted to quit school, and hockey, and all your friends and family, and be my own personal puck bunny for life, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Eric pinched the soft fleshy bit above Jack’s hipbone. “Don’t tempt me.”

Jack pushed him toward the bed. “Lie down.”

Eric inhaled sharply when Jack dropped to his knees. “Fuck, Jack.”

“I’m trying.” The words were muffled as Jack nuzzled his bare thigh, peppering kisses to his knees, using his hands to urge Bitty backward until he collapsed, weak protests still falling from his lips.

“Smartass,” Eric moaned, shuddering when Jack lifted him from his briefs.

It had been fast and desperate in the hotel, at least the first time, but now it was a benediction, here in their marriage bed, in the home they were creating together. Jack thought (when he had enough brain cells to think at all) that he would never tire of this, of Eric—the way he smelled, the way he tasted, the sounds he made when Jack took him in his mouth.

The way he looked at Jack, like he hung the moon.

Although he was wrong, so, so wrong. Eric _was_ the moon.

Jack’s knees were creaky and sore after, which prompted a chirp or two from his adorably satisfied spouse.

“I’m going to bake you the biggest pecan pie you’ve ever seen,” Eric crooned, running his fingers over the slight rug burns, covering them with gentle kisses. He pushed Jack to his back, shoving aside the pillows and straddling his hips. “With the prettiest fluted crust.”

“Yeah?” Jack grinned tiredly; his dick was well spent and it _still_ twitched when Bitty climbed on top of him.

“Mmm,” Eric nodded bending over to kiss him slowly. “And then I’m going to feed it to you.” Another kiss, this time filthy with tongue and a slow roll of his hips. “In bed.”

Jack chuckled, swallowing a moan, fingers digging into Eric’s thighs. “Baby, I couldn’t get it up again right now for a million pecan pies.”

“Old timer,” Eric grinned cheekily, sitting back and taking himself in his hand, with the enviable refractory time of youth, as beautiful a sight as Jack had ever seen.

Especially when he made a mess of Jack’s chest and stomach a few moments later, head thrown back in abandon, lips bitten red.

They were never, ever leaving this bed.

He grimaced when Eric collapsed on top of him.

Well--maybe he would make an exception for the shower.

_/ \\_ 

“Jack? Can I do something with all this money?”

They were sprawled across the couch, the late Sunday sun lancing across the living room and painting it with warmth. Jack was scrolling Netflix and Eric was reading up on Jack’s investments. Jack’s financial advisor had sent his quarterly report while he was gone, and while it wasn’t something Jack usually concerned himself with overmuch (he knew he had good people), it was obvious that Eric’s curiosity was piqued. Jack had handed him the dark blue folder and said, _Knock yourself out._

He yawned. “Babe, you can do whatever you want with it. Save some for the cable bill and lube.”

“Not _all_ of it.” Eric kicked him in the thigh and smiled fondly. “Perv. Just, maybe a small chunk.”

Jack rolled his head in Eric’s direction, too lazy and content to retaliate. “You have student loans?”

“What? No!” Eric kicked him again. “As if I would spend your money on _that._ ”

“Our money.”

Eric rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he shook his head. “No. I’ll take care of my student loans, thank you very much. I was just thinking…”

When he didn’t continue Jack tossed the remote control aside and sat up. “You were just thinking what?”

Eric’s mouth twisted as he considered his next words. Jack loved that about him, the way he would take his time to be thoughtful rather than blurt out whatever was at the forefront of his mind. It was the complete opposite of the way Kent had been, was, not that Jack needed to make comparisons. Eric would win that race with an embarrassingly large lead.

“I was just thinking…you know how the Boys and Girls Club was having that afternoon skate after your practice last week?”

Eric had started coming to Falcs practices if he was home from school in time, so he and Jack could go out for dinner, or—Jack’s favorite—share the ice at Citizen’s Center for a little one on one. Word had quickly spread, until several other Falcs began staying too, resulting in at least a couple of decent-size (but horribly organized) pick up games every week. It was exhilarating, both playing with Eric and playing for fun, and Jack was falling in love with hockey in a way he maybe never had before. And Eric was good— _really_ good—so much so that he was a hot commodity when it came time to pick teams.

Jack’s teammates being predictable assholes meant he usually wound up playing against Eric instead of beside him, but even that was okay. Win or lose he still went home every night with the biggest prize.

“You with me?” Eric grinned.

Jack blinked. “I was thinking about your ass in hockey pants.”

“You want me to go put some on?”

“God, yes,” Jack said with so much feeling that Eric threw his head back and laughed.

“Jesus, you’re too easy,” he teased, brown eyes sparkling.

“It’s the least you could do,” Jack grumbled, reaching across the sofa to drag him close. He tucked him into his side and dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ve been fully dressed for two hours.”

“Two whole hours, my my.”

Jack squeezed him. “Don’t sass me, Mr. Bittle.”

Eric narrowed his eyes. “I seem to remember someone begging for a little sass this morning.”

“Dirty talk, Bits. Dirty talk is not sassing.”

“It is when I do it,” Eric tipped his head back and winked, slow and sultry.

Jack groaned and palmed the front of his sweats. “Christ, Eric, my dick is going to fall off. Stop!”

Eric took pity on him and gently patted his forlorn crotch. “Hold on there, hoss. I’ll get to you later.” He pecked Jack’s lips in a too swift kiss before bounding off the couch.

“Wait, where are you going?” Jack scowled. Surely it wouldn’t fall _off_ off _._ Like, _yes,_ it kinda hurt to get hard right now, and his back was aching—and _dear God,_ his knees—but Eric’s warm mouth and soft tongue, maybe that would be okay. Tide him over until…

He grinned. Until the next time Eric chirped him, or smiled, or stood within arms length with even one square inch of bare skin visible.  

Eric returned and dropped down beside him, magazine in hand. “Okay. So I want to do this.” He flipped the magazine open to a dog-eared page and passed it to Jack.

Jack scanned the headline and accompanying photos. “A hockey club?”

“Well, yeah. Or, you know. A skating club, so figure skating too.” Eric shrugged. “For kids who can’t afford lessons or equipment. Or maybe their parents have to work too much and can’t bring them to a rink. We could provide safe transportation and after school programs. Or,” Eric took a breath and held it before releasing it slowly, the same way Jack’s therapist had taught him to exhale anxiety, half a dozen years ago. “I think it would be amazing. To help kids who maybe don’t fit the usual mold, and need a safe space. To learn how to skate and love the sport without the pressure of being accepted, or pretending to be something they’re not.”

Jack’s chest clenched. For the minefield that came with _being_ _Jack Zimmermann_ , but also for the young figure skater from Georgia, who had fought against the odds and accomplished all his dreams, albeit in an unconventional way. A boy who had somehow fallen into Jack’s life exactly when he needed him. “Eric.” Jack had to stop and steady himself, emotions too close to the surface, threatening to spill over, a waterfall. “It’s perfect,” he said at length, trying and failing to find better words. “Let’s do it.”

“Really?” Eric’s face brightened, the hesitation and nervousness that had clouded his expression lifting in an instant. “You like it?”

“I love it.” Jack pulled him close for a soft kiss. “You’re amazing.”

“Maybe,” Eric grinned, running his fingers through Jack’s messy hair. “But you’re rich, and right now that’s more important.”

“ _We’re_ rich.” Jack coaxed him onto his lap, settling back for a nice, long makeout session.

“Oh! And maybe after the skating club is up and running we could _—_ ”

Whatever else Eric was going to say was lost to the kisses of one very infatuated husband, who would have agreed anyway, no matter what.

 _/ \\_ 

“You want to host a skating party for kids?” Georgia frowned, her confusion evident.

“Not a party, George. A permanent skating club. If not here,” Jack waved his arms to indicate Citizens Center. “Then somewhere else local. Somewhere Eric and I, and hopefully some of the other guys, can visit regularly. Meet with the kids, hang out.”

“There are skating clubs all over the state, Jack.” George’s expression was cautious, the way it often was when she didn’t want to disappoint him with shitty tabloid cover stories about his love life.

“Not like this,” Jack shook his head. “No cost lessons, equipment vouchers. Transportation. Decent coaching staff.”

“Jack—” George shook her head again. “That’s a huge endeavor. You’re an NHL hockey player.”

“Who has more money than he will ever spend. Look.” He studied the ring on his left finger, the diamonds dark and sleek. “I know this isn’t your area of expertise, that’s not why I’m telling you. I can find someone to advise me about the technical specifics and I already have at least two guys on retainer who will tell me what an idiot I am and charge me $150 an hour for the privilege.” He grinned. “I’m doing it anyway. Eric and I want to do this. It’s important.”

The faint stirrings of a smile flitted across George’s face. “God, I wish I could tell you you were stupid. But I can’t!” She laughed. “You’re a good man, Jack. And this is a wonderful idea. Of course I’ll have to run it past a few people, but I don’t see any reason why the Falconer’s would have issues with you going forward with it.”

“And the ice?” Jack held his breath. That was the biggie; the Falconers technically rented the arena for games and practice, as did other sports and events. But it had been built specifically to house them, the pride of Providence, and a part of Jack wanted Eric’s skate club to start here.

“Eh, trickier. But let me see what I can do.” George jotted down a few names on a sticky note. “Here are a few people you might want to talk to, about some logistics.”

“Thanks,” Jack tucked the note in his wallet. “And I mean that,” he said, quiet and sincere. “Thank you George, for always having my back.”

Her smile was soft when she reached one hand across the top of her desk. “Jack. Of course.”

Jack clasped her fingers for a beat before he stood. “Besides,” he grinned. “If we can’t do it here, I can always build my own arena.”

“Oh my God,” George laughed. “You would, too.”

Jack held his hands up, to outline an invisible marquee. “The Bittle-Zimmermann Skating Facility.” He ducked when George threw a wad of paper at him.

“Okay out!” She pointed to the door. “Go on, get out so I can cry in the dark like a respectable assistant manager!”

Jack laughed and opened the door, turning when she called his name.

“Jack, wait, I almost forgot. Come with me.” George grabbed a manila envelope from her desk and ducked in front of him, walking briskly down the hall. Jack followed her into the employee’s lounge, where her head disappeared inside of a large, stainless steel refrigerator. When she reappeared seconds later, she was holding a paper grocery sack. She handed the bag and the envelope to Jack.

Jack peeked in the bag first. “What’s this?” He could see bottles of mustard and relish, buns.

“Weiners.”

“I’m sorry?” Jack quirked one brow. This was weird, even for George, who had always kept him on his toes.

She shrugged and pointed at the envelope. “Eric’s contract and ‘payment log’ are in there. I didn’t burn them like you asked. I thought maybe you both would enjoy the honor.”

Jack’s hand clenched around the envelope as latent rage about Dadery’s sneakiness and ill treatment of Eric surged through him. “And this?” He shook the grocery bag, voice tight.

George stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Weiners for a weiner?” She laughed and waved her hand over her head. “It seemed like something Eric might get a kick out of.”

Jack laughed, irritation instantly evaporating. “You want us to have a weenie roast over Eric’s contract.”

“Take pics,” George winked, sliding past him and out the door. “And post them to Instagram!” She called over her shoulder.

“Weiners,” Jack chuckled, rolling the top of the bag down tight and grabbing his phone. He texted Eric on his way out of the building. _Hope you haven’t started dinner._

 **_Eric:_ ** _Well right now I’m covered in corn syrup and flour_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Pie?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Someone’s been a very good boy_

 **_Jack:_ ** _You have no idea_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Ooh tell me more. Or show me. Is he naked?_

Jack snorted. _Why would I be naked? Outside of the locker room I mean_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Just testing you. And we need to talk about that locker room. I heard about Thirdy._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Who told you about that?!_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Nevermind._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Tater is a dead man._

 **_Eric:_ ** _I mean, I get it. You’re a hottie_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Did Tater tell you we were technically referring to you?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Yeah but Thirdy has never seen ME naked_

 **_Jack:_ ** _I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore_

 **_Eric:_ ** _WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THE FULL BODY UNDER ARMOUR I’M SPECIAL ORDERING TO COVER THE FAMILY JEWELS YOU JACK ASS_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Ha. Jack. Ass._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Har har_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Thirdy’s not invited to the wedding reception_

 **_Jack:_ ** _The what now?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Oh I forgot to tell you. Your mom wants to throw us a party when my parents get here with my car next month. So, uh, we’re having a party. Surprise!_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Do I have to come?_

 **_Eric:_ ** _JACK_

 **_Jack:_ ** _What? It’s not like I don’t already know them. I already met everyone_

 **_Eric:_ ** _You have to come._

 **_Eric:_ ** _So many dirty thoughts rn_

 **_Jack:_ ** _ANYWAY_

 **_Jack:_ ** _I’m bringing dinner home. Don’t cook._

 **_Jack:_ ** _Except my pie_

 **_Eric:_ ** _*salutes*_

 **_Jack:_ ** _Don’t get me horny, my dick is still on strike_

 **_Eric:_ ** _Tell that to Thirdy_

Jack laughed and started the truck. _Love you, be home soon._ His phone buzzed with an Instagram notification just as he was about to back out of his parking spot. Eric was holding half a pecan to his sweetly pursed lips like a cigarette, his hair a fucking mess, chest and shoulders bare except for the apron strings tied round his neck. There was a faint smudge of flour along his cheekbone. _Was it good for you?_ the caption read.

 _Always,_ Jack typed in reply, snorting when Thirdy almost immediately liked all parts of the exchange. Poor Thirdy, Jack thought. It would take a lot more than social media interaction to win back Bitty’s affections.

His boy was possessive.

And Jack was in love.


	28. The Second Best Day

“How long do you think this party is going to last?” Jack grumbled, tugging at his collar and scowling into the mirror on the back of the closet door. His tie was too tight, and Bitty was too far away. He’d _been_ too far away for the past two weeks, their schedules miserably at odds with one another. And now, when they were finally in synch, instead of holing up in their apartment and shutting out the world for three days—they had to go sit on display for all of their extended families and friends.

 _Super_.

 Eric laughed, the sweet echo of it drifting out of the bathroom. “Are you messing with your tie again? Stop, it’s perfect. And I don’t know? How long do your mother’s parties usually last?”

Jack’s scowl deepened. “That long?”

“Wow.” Eric’s breathless exclamation had Jack glancing up.

“What?” He tugged at the tie once more, then smoothed a hand over his chest. “Do I look all right?”

Eric snorted. “Jesus. Are you serious?” He practically floated across the bedroom, a vision all his own in an elegant black tux. He squeezed between Jack and the mirror and wrapped his arms around his waist. “You look amazing. But you already know that, right?”

 Jack’s grin was slow and sultry. “I know _you_ look good enough to eat.” He ducked down so he could nuzzle his neck. “Mmm, and you smell good too.”

“Oh no, mister—” Eric tried to spin away, laughing when Jack’s hands grabbed his backside and pinned him in place. “ _Jack._ We have people waiting, our friends. Family—”

Jack kissed him, pouring all of his frustration into the effort, gentling when Eric melted into his chest. “I want to stay home. With you.”

Eric blinked his eyes open, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. “Don’t pout.” His voice was raspy, dazed, and Jack grinned.

“We could be late, though, right?” He squeezed Eric’s butt. “We’re newlyweds. Can’t keep our hands off each other.”

“Mister Zimmermann.” Eric’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You did _not_ just try to seduce me out of my own wedding reception.”

Jack blinked innocently. “I would _never_.”

“Liar.” Eric thumped his fist on Jack’s chest and then came up on his toes to press a firm kiss to his mouth. “You should probably be punished for that.” He made his escape when Jack’s mouth and hands went slack. “Later.” He tossed a slow wink over his shoulder and sashayed down the hall.

“Fuck me,” Jack muttered, palming the front of his trousers and sending up a prayer that there would be no accidental boners in front of his mother.

_/ \\_ 

It was at the thirty-five minute mark that Jack reached his socialization threshold.

He had only seen Eric from a distance, with first his mother, and then Bitty’s, whisking him away to manage an alarmingly large pile of gifts. Jack stayed parked against the wall, accepting a variety of snack foods and cold beverages from the people brave enough to breech his personal space bubble.

“Your mom could go into business,” Shitty muttered around a mouthful of canapé. Jack grunted and passed him a napkin. “Oh hey, is that Patrick Kane?” Shitty waved his free hand at a group of men around a table.  

“Oh Lord, I hope not. I hate that smug bastard,” Jack muttered, plastering a generic smile on his face and nodding at a couple when they passed. “I don’t know half these people.”

“Nevermind, false alarm.” Shitty shoved the rest of the pastry in his mouth. “But there’s enough hockey royalty in this room to choke a horse.”

“And canapés,” Jack grinned.

“What?” Shitty asked, mouth grossly displaying its contents.

“You’re disgusting.” Jack pushed him toward the bar. “Go get me a water.” He didn’t really want another drink, but he could use a minute alone to calm his thoughts.

If Jack was the wallflower, then Eric was the butterfly, completely at ease and in his element, charming everyone in his path with his easy wit and bright laughter. In addition to Shitty and Lardo, several friends from Samwell were in attendance, too, and their gentle chirping had put a glow on Eric’s cheeks that had yet to dissipate. On the other side of the spectrum, to Jack’s growing irritation, there were at least two former and six current NHL players that he would need to school—very soon—on the appropriate place to rest one’s eyes (and how that place was never, ever going to include Eric’s ass).

“You know,” Marty mused, appearing out of nowhere and nudging Jack’s elbow. “Me n’Tater offered to help your mom decorate. I don’t know why she turned us down.”

Jack sighed internally. He was just going to have to be social. _Goddammit_. “My mother is a smart woman, that’s why.”

“I’m insulted. That condom tree at your shower was spectacular.”

“It was something all right.” Jack’s grin faded when a familiar blonde head turned into the ballroom, a scantily clad girl on each arm.

“ _God,_ who invited Parson?” Marty groaned before wincing. “Oh, uh, sorry Jack. I know he’s like your childhood bestie, but the guy’s a dick.”

Jack set his water glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Bestie, Marty? Really?” He brushed his hands on his pant legs. _Might as well get this over with._

“What? He is!”

Jack ignored him and picked his way across the room, hoping to intercept before Kent reached Eric.

“Jack!” Bob appeared in his path with a wide smile and an empty glass. “C’mere, I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Kind of in the middle of something, Dad. Can it wait?” Jack watched Kent deposit his ‘dates’ at the bar, and then sweep his gaze across the room until it came to rest on a small cluster of people on the opposite wall. _Eric._ “Dad,” Jack interrupted his father’s embarrassing insistence that _You have your whole life to fondle your boy, Jack, this is important._ “I’ll be right back. And please never say fondle again.”

Jack reached Kent and Eric just in time to hear Kent laugh.

“I guess that means the regularly scheduled benefits are no longer included with Zimm’s friendship?”

Eric’s expression was sour. “You guess correct.”

Jack stepped between them just as Kent was opening his mouth to reply. “Kent.”

Kent’s eyes widened. “Zimms, hey. I didn’t see you.”

“Yes, you did.” Jack was tired. Tired of missing Eric, tired of this party, tired of trying to hold onto Kent Parson, his oldest friend and—so many times over the years—his biggest mistake. The night Jack had met Eric, in Las Vegas, he had made a monumental decision: to stop falling for promises Kent would never keep and learn how to be his friend. Or walk away for good. “Kenny, why are you here?”

Kent stiffened. “I was invited.”

“I doubt that.” Jack shook his head once in his mom and dad’s direction. They were watching the exchange from across the room with worried expressions. Maman would never have invited Kent without telling him.

Kent had the grace to flush, his handsome face at once turning remorseful. “Jack, I swear. I didn’t come here to cause trouble.”

“Good.” Jack turned as if to go, and Kent’s hand shot out to stop him.

“I only came to wish you well. And to meet Eric.”

His fingers were hard on Jack’s arm, his grip tight, and Jack hated the part of himself that wanted to believe him. Kent could be a good person, he _could_ ; Jack wouldn’t have spent half his life chasing after him otherwise.

It was Bitty who defused the tension. He reached for Jack’s hand, his fingers reassuring and warm. “Jack,” he said quietly.

Jack could read the unspoken concern in his eyes, along with a _‘Don’t let him spoil our night’,_ and he sighed, turning to face the man who was once the only person Jack had ever expected to love. He relaxed his shoulders before he spoke, thinking of all the times Kent had tied him up in knots, chewing him up and spitting him out. This was it; the last time. It was a relief to finally have a reason to let him go. “Kent, this is my husband. Eric.”

Kent’s eyes flicked once to the arm Jack had slipped around Eric’s waist, before he seemed to sober, thrusting out one hand with a nod. “Eric.”

“Bitty,” Eric corrected, taking his hand and shrugging when he caught Jack’s surprised glance. “What? He’s not going anywhere.”

Kent snorted and then pulled, hard, catching an off-balance Eric in a bear hug. “Not unless you want me too,” he said quietly, and Jack knew it was going to be all right. It was a goodbye and a beginning, for both of them. Maybe Kent had been ready too.

Eric cleared his throat when he stepped back and patted Kent’s cheek. “No, you can stay.” The slightest bite still colored his words, and Jack’s helpless heart flipped in his chest, a wave of affection rushing over him.

He dropped a kiss to Eric’s temple to hide his emotions.

 Kent frowned. “Are you gonna cry, Zimms?”

“Fuck you,” Jack murmured, and kissed Eric again. “Green was never really your color, Parse,” he added pointedly as he straightened.

“Well, _A—_ your spousal unit just nixed all hope of the former and _B._ I am _not_ jealous.”

“Damn straight I did,” Eric grinned, rocking back on his heels and tilting his head. “Not that it was ever a genuine possibility.”

“Satisfy your man, do you?” Kent’s tone bordered on mocking and Jack thought his previous generosity might have been too hasty.

Eric lifted up on his toes to kiss Jack’s cheek, then waved one hand between them. “Jack was built for this. Love. Commitment. Monogamy.” He smiled. “It’s honestly a shame you never figured that out.”

Kent’s mouth fell open and Jack laughed.

“Thanks, baby.”

“Anytime, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric winked, before sauntering away.

“Damn, would I love to see him play,” Kent mused. “Also, excuse you, I look _great_ in green. It matches my eyes.” He batted his eyelashes absently as he watched Eric work the room.

“You want to? Play, I mean.” Jack pursed his lips and added Kent to the mental list of NHL players he was going to slam into the boards for looking at Eric’s butt. He decided brute force without warning was absolutely justified.

Kent laughed. “What, now? You do realize we’re at your wedding reception.”

“Why not? The guys are here, the rink is down the street.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “I have a key.”

Kent slapped a hand around Jack’s bicep. “Zimms, old fuck buddy, old pal—you’re on.”

“Awesome, let me round everyone up.” Jack turned to leave but stopped to catch Kent’s eye. “And Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“You should probably think twice before calling me that again. Especially in front of Bitty.” He grinned. “He may be little, but he could still wipe the floor with your pansy ass.”

_/ \\_ 

Alicia put her foot down, backed wholeheartedly by Suzanne and Moomaw—but the ladies were immediately overridden by their husbands—and all the men in the room, who were really, _really,_ ready to shed their tuxes and get out on the ice (or in the stands).

Which was how Jack and Eric’s elegant wedding reception for two hundred turned into a pickup all star game of ice hockey, featuring a mix of professional and collegiate players.

The ensuing chirping was downright ruthless.

“Hey Parse, how much did that spray tan cost anyway?”

“Yeah Parse, Tater here could use a little color. If it’s not too much dough!”

“Dough? Ain’t Tater got enough dough, what with all those damn pies in our fridge?”

“Uh oh, Tater, you got a pie problem?”

“Is not problem, Kasinsky. Your face is problem.”

“C’mon old man, give it your best shot!” This was from the wiggly goalie in the defensive zone, and Jack was hard pressed to gauge who was more surprised—his dad or Chowder—when Bad Bob’s famous slap shot was caught neatly in the kid’s glove.

“Nice!” Bob skated over to give Chowder’s fist a bump, before heading back to center ice to divvy up the teams.

And it turned out that even at Jack’s own damn _party_ —the guys wouldn’t cut him a break, splitting him and Eric and placing them on separate teams.

“I would be mad, but they’re so tickled with themselves,” Eric laughed, leaning up to give Jack a quick kiss before he pulled on his helmet. He, like most of the men, was still wearing his tuxedo pants, and they clung to his ass in a way that Jack knew was going to be a problem.

He might have to drop gloves before the night was done.

The first few plays were just plain silliness, and the laughter buoyed Jack’s spirits about being on different teams. Besides—he had decided to pass the puck to Bitty whenever he was close anyway.

“Zimmermann, you besotted asshole, _can it!_ ”

Eric just beamed and skated close enough to make a few raunchy promises about how he would show his gratitude later.

“My eyes, my eyes!” Kent screamed after one goal, when Jack yanked off his helmet and kissed Bitty soundly in celebration.

“Fuck’s sake Zimms, he’s not even on our team, man!”

 “Actually, he’s the only one on my team,” Jack winked, to a mixed chorus of boos and catcalls.

They broke for intermission, tied, when Alicia and Suzanne rolled out a cart with the cake, and a barrel filled with chilled champagne bottles.

“I didn’t want to bring the china, for obvious reasons,” Alicia sniffed. “So you’ll have to eat your wedding cake off of paper plates.”

Jack chuckled and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Thank you, Maman. And Mom,” he added, leaning over to kiss Suzanne too. 

Suzanne’s hands fluttered for a second before reaching for a paper napkin and dabbing at her eyes. “Oh go on, then. Make a toast and cut the cake.”

“No wait, I get to make the toast!” Bob called, handing off his stick to a starry-eyed Chowder and pulling a folded sheet of paper from the front pocket of his tuxedo pants.

“Those pants are never going to be the same,” Alicia muttered mournfully.

Bob took his place beside his wife and cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “Jack, Eric—congratulations. Most people will go their whole lives and never find their soul mate, and to be honest, until I met your mother I never really believed in that kind of horseshit.”

“ _Bob_.”

Bob winked at his wife. “Sorry, hon.” He continued. “But even if I had never met her, watching the two of you these past few months would have made me a believer. Eric.” He paused and his face noticeably warmed when he looked at Bitty. “Jack is special, and not just because he’s my only son.”

“And a fucking beast on the ice!” Called a voice from the back.

Bob chuckled. “And that. No, he’s special because his whole life he’s been driven. Driven to do well. To be the best. Sometimes—oftentimes—to the detriment of his own safety, health, and personal satisfaction. I don’t know why fate smiled down that day, and decided to cross your paths with one another, but I like to imagine they looked at you and saw exactly the right person for my boy. The person to make him stop, to want to see the world outside of a hockey rink, to eat too many cookies and skip his morning runs now and then.”

“Hey!” Jack protested with a grin. It was true though; his pants were a tiny bit snug around the waist these days.

“You’re it, Eric,” Bob said, eyes suspiciously wet. “You’ve been it for Jack from the moment he met you, and you’re it for us. Welcome to the family.”

“Oh,” Eric sniffed, swiping at his eyes and then lunging at Bob, where he was gathered up in a hard hug.

Bob thumped him on the back a few times. “Okay, son, if you don’t let go my reputation is going to suffer,” he stage-whispered.

The was a brief shuffling of parents and then, to Jack’s surprise, Coach was front and center. Eric must have been just as shocked, emitting a tiny squeak.

Coach slapped his palms together, the way he had done before every pre-game pep talk for the past twenty-five years. “I don’t think anyone is going to be surprised when I say, I never, _ever,_ thought I would be standing here, doing this.” He waited for the polite chuckles to die down before he continued. “Jack? When I first heard about you and Dicky, um, Eric, I didn’t think you were anywhere near good enough for my son.”

Kent snickered and Shitty smacked him in the back of the head.

“Now wait, I don’t mean that in an insulting way.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Jack whispered at Eric, who shushed him, his cheeks still pink. His big, brown eyes were trained on his father, and Jack knew that whatever Coach was about to say was more for Eric than for anyone else in the room.

“The fact is, Jack—you don’t have a vagina.”

There was a snort and a choking sound from behind them, followed by a brief scuffle.

“Carry on!” Shitty called.

Jack felt the mirth begin to build in his chest and prayed to whatever gods were listening that he could keep it together. He schooled his face and answered, “No sir, I don’t.”

“No,” Coach nodded sagely, seemingly relieved that Jack agreed with him. “And where I come from, and how I was raised, that was a key component of any happy, successful marriage. Parts that, uh,” he blanched and glanced at Suzanne who was beaming at him in encouragement. “Go together,” he finished in a rush.

Jack heard someone whisper _“Who’s gonna tell him?”_ and had to clear his throat to cover the laughter bubbling up in his throat.

 Coach took the napkin Suzanne handed him and patted over the sheen on his forehead. “And the thing is, I believed that. Truly believed that, even when it became obvious that _that_ was never going to happen. My Dicky—well, he just ain’t interested.”

“ _Coach_.” Even Eric was getting tickled, his face bright red, and Jack didn’t know how any of them were going to survive the next five minutes.

“Now, son, I have a point, I swear I do.” Coach shoved the napkin in his trouser pocket. “Dicky is my— _our—_ pride and joy. My son. My baby.” He looked a little misty eyed at that and Jack felt his chest tighten. “And above anything else—what Pastor Rick says, or my stupid sister Midge, or aw, hell. Anyone in that godforsaken podunk town. I want my boy to be happy. And Jack? You make him happy. That’s good enough for me.”

“Oh my God!” Eric slapped both hands over his face, laughing and maybe crying, and Jack just held onto him, grinning at Coach to beat the band.

“Thank you sir, I try.”

“And you just keep on trying, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack nodded.

Coach started to step away but he stopped when Suzanne coughed delicately. “Oh. And one more thing. Even without the, uh, you know.” He waved in the vicinity of Jack’s crotch. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have children. There are places out there that take care of that sort of thing now. You can even donate your own—”

 _“Dad!”_ Eric moaned, burying his face in Jack’s shoulder.

“I’m just sayin’,” Coach shrugged. “There’s no reason I can’t have grandchildren. Not right away, mind you, but,” he shrugged. “Someday.”

Jack hoped to fuck someone was recording all of this for posterity. He would have chirping material on their parents for _life._ “That’s the plan,” he said, just to watch Eric’s eyes go wide and glassy.

“And now—cake!” Alicia interceded, clearly resigned to having her picture perfect wedding reception be upstaged by a rowdy bunch of hockey players and two old men waxing nostalgic about their boys.

Lardo appeared with a tripod and a camera, to document the ceremonial cutting, and giving Jack a prime opportunity to shove cake all over Bitty’s handsome face—a ritual that until very recently Jack had never thought he would get to have.

Bitty paid him back in spades, and then sucked a bit of icing off of his earlobe shortly afterward, causing a wave of desire in Jack so strong it nearly brought him to his knees.

“You wanna sneak out of here and get naked?” He whispered, grabbing Eric’s butt and giving it a squeeze.

Eric was radiant when he laughed up at him. “And leave our perfect party?”

Jack looked around. His entire family was right here, his mom and dad, Eric’s parents, his teammates and Eric’s friends from Samwell. Everyone they loved, and who loved them back was present, and he was hard pressed to imagine another time when they would all be together like this. It _was_ perfect. “You’re right,” he smiled. “Besides, I still need to kick your ass at hockey.”

“I think you mean _I_ need to kick _Kent’s_ ass at hockey,” Eric said tartly, spinning away with a slice of cake in one hand and calling for a huddle.

The ice was a literal mess when they finished, bits of cake and tiny pastel mints and splashes of champagne littering it from one end to the next.

It was the best night of Jack’s life.

As he watched Eric’s team make their victory lap, he amended that thought: _second best._

Because his dad was right; fate had already gifted him the very best day, the night it gave him Eric Bittle.


	29. Two Tickets to Paradise

Jack watched the Stanley Cup as it was hoisted high overhead, camera flashes bouncing off the etched silver surface in a thousand rays of light.

Eric squeezed his hand. “Next year.”

Jack waited for the crushing disappointment, the relentless mental replay of every missed shot, every fouled block—and slowly exhaled when it failed to materialize. “I hate going out like that though,” he said. “Not my best game.”

“Not your worst either.”

“Hey.” He dug his elbow into Eric’s side, grinning when he yelped. 

“What?” Eric pinched him in retaliation. “Just keepin’ it real.”

“Aren’t you supposed to lie to me? Make me feel better?”

“Do you want me to?” Eric yawned and snuggled closer.

Jack’s eyes left the television and fell on the blonde at his side: hair still damp and curling from a shower, covered from shoulder to toe in one of Jack’s worn Falcs shirts and baggy sweats, tucked under his arm on their brand new sofa. “Nah,” he said, feigning nonchalance and battling a swarm of butterflies. “I want you to make me a sandwich.”

Eric pinched him again, but there was no strength behind the movement. “I would argue but I’m hungry and—don’t take this the wrong way, sugar—you make crap sandwiches.”

Before he could completely unfurl from the couch, though, Jack pulled him onto his lap, burying his face in the sweet-smelling skin behind his ear. “Wait.”

Eric’s fingers stilled over the curve of Jack’s arm. “You okay?”

“Mmm. Love you,” Jack mumbled into his neck.

Eric twisted around so he could kiss him, a soft brush of lips. “Love you too.” He rested their foreheads together. “Next year.”

Jack nodded. “Next year, when there aren’t reporters waiting to ambush you at every game.”

“They weren’t that bad,” Eric murmured, kissing Jack again when it seemed like he was going to protest.

They _were_ bad. Maybe not at first, not until playoff season was in full swing, but then the more unscrupulous of the lot had returned with a vengeance. It was like they were lying in wait for the end of Jack’s season, ready to eviscerate him either way, win or lose.

He squeezed Eric’s hips. “They were bad enough. But maybe next year, when we’re old news and boring—”

Eric straightened with an exaggerated gasp. “Excuse you. I’m _never_ boring.”

“Oh, well, pardon me.” Jack’s hands migrated to his butt; it was time to change the subject. He wiggled his brows. “Want to do not-boring things tonight to break in the new furniture?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “You just did not-boring things to me in the shower an hour ago.”

Jack squeezed the firmness under his palms. “I’m athletic. I can do not-boring things a _lot._ ” He leaned into Eric’s neck again and inhaled, nipping at the skin until he squirmed. He sat back with a smile.

“What?” Eric’s eyes were a little bit glazed, cheeks pink, and Jack felt a familiar predatory warmth spread through his limbs. Eric laughed. “Stop that. You look like you’re going to eat _me_ in stead of deli turkey on whole wheat.”

 “Why can’t I have both?” Jack growled, sighing when Eric wiggled out of his arms and to his feet.

“Food now, sex later.” Eric eyed the neatly arranged cushions on the sofa. “On the _floor_ , like respectable newlyweds.”

Jack grinned; he was pretty sure he heard him mutter _heathen_ as he flounced off to the kitchen. He had gotten pretty good at distracting his boy into compromising situations over the past few months; brand new furniture was nothing in the face of Jack Zimmermann’s formidable skills.

Besides; he and Shitty had already tested it out on the showroom floor. Eric had been knee-deep in final exams and after narrowing down his top three choices from the online catalogue, he had sent Jack and Shitty to the furniture store to make the final selection.

It had been Shitty who insisted the final test of sofa suitability was cuddling potential.

“You can’t have someone’s ass hanging off the side, Jack.”

The salesman had carefully averted his eyes when Shitty dragged an unsuspecting Jack down on top of him and then manhandled him into what he called _prime cuddling position._

Jack had drawn the line at Shitty’s whispered offer to test Jack’s _other favorite positions_.

“Yo!” Eric called from the kitchen. “We’re not eatin’ on my new sofa either, so get your big ass in here Zimmboni.”

Jack slid onto a bar stool a few seconds later. “I’m putting you on a Tater limit.”

Eric placed a plate in front of him, looking entirely too seductive when he leaned against the counter. “Is that like a diet?” He peered over his shoulder until he could see his own backside. “Because I’ve got it on good authority I’m already perfect.”

“Uh huh,” Jack grunted, biting into his sandwich. “And whose authority is _that_?” Although, to be honest, Jack already agreed.

“Vanity Fair,” Eric shrugged, a sassy gleam in his eye.

Jack snorted. “Didn’t take you long to warm up to the limelight, I see.”

“Two words, Jack: Annie Leibovitz.”

The issue had just hit the stands, and Jack maybe had a half dozen spare copies squirreled away ‘just in case’. Jack had had his own picture taken hundreds if not thousands of times over the years. He even dabbled in a bit of amateur photography himself—but what Annie Leibovitz had done with some beat up hockey gear and a mostly-naked Eric on empty ice was breathtaking.

His favorite photos, though, were the ones of them in the botanical gardens, together, tuxedo shirts undone, fingers entwined, full, lush lips and liquid brown eyes…Yes. Annie Leibovitz was on Jack’s permanent Christmas Card List.

At one point in their individual sessions, he had finished early and snuck onto set to surprise Eric, stumbling onto a rare glimpse into his spouse that he would forever consider a gift.  

“What is your favorite thing about Jack Zimmermann? What do you like about him?” The interviewer asked briskly, her fingers flying across the keys of her tablet.  

Perched on a stool, framed by lights and the muted color of the background, Eric’s face had grown contemplative. “I like the way he says _sorry,_ all Canadian—not that he ever needs to say it. Usually for things like putting the coffee mugs away one shelf too high. I like the way his face goes all intense when he sits on the balcony and tries to see the stars, no matter how many times I tell him he _can’t_ see the stars in downtown Providence, there are too many lights!”

The reporter’s smile went from generic to startled to warm as Eric spoke.

“I like the way he sneaks my double chunk chocolate chip cookies before bed, when he thinks I won’t notice, and the way he refuses to let me do the dishes—unless he cooks, which he _can._ I’m just better.” Eric laughed at himself and then stopped, realizing the crew had quieted. “Um, too much?”

“No,” the reporter said softly, holding her tablet tightly against her chest. “That was perfect.”

Jack had had to have a moment alone, after that.

Now he watched Eric demolish a deli turkey on whole wheat and thought about the long stretch of summer ahead of them. No practice, no games, no schoolwork. Nothing but endless sun and scattered trips to see family, and long, long days spent with the sweet perfection that was Eric Bittle.

It was another gift.

“Bits?”

“Yeah?” The word was garbled, Eric’s mouth full.

“Let’s go away for a while.”

_/ \\_ 

 

Gillian found a beachside bungalow in a quiet seaside village—far from touristy eyes and allowing them to effectively disappear for as long as they wanted. She cried when she handed them a proposed itinerary, sniffling as she said they deserved the perfect honeymoon.

Jack imagined her job of protecting his and Eric’s reputation and social media presence had been rougher of late than he had realized, and he made a silent vow to send her and her team an extra generous thank you.

In the truck, Eric stared down at the folder of information, a little bit awestruck. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

“What?” Jack turned the key and revved the engine. Did they really even need to pack? They could buy swimsuits and whatever else they needed on the island. He already had their passports in his back pocket, having slipped them from the safe before they left the apartment. Tiny could keep an eye on things, water Eric’s plants and pick up the mail.

When he pulled out of the Citizen Center, he turned toward the airport.

“Jack Zimmermann,” Eric said sternly, but he laughed when Jack gave him a baudy wink and reached across the seat to take his hand. “Sap.” Eric’s eyes were twinkling.

“You love me,” Jack replied calmly, reveling in the rock solid assurance that lived inside his chest—he spoke the truth.

“I do,” Eric shrugged with another laugh. “I do.”

_/ \\_ 

They learned to surf—well, Eric learned and Jack admitted a rare defeat. They stayed up too late and slept too long. They snorkeled and collected beach glass and caught fish and crab for dinner. They didn’t miss television or the internet, although Eric occasionally posted dreamy beachside photos to their Instagram’s, sunburned bare feet and blurred flashes of wide smiles, multi-hued sunsets painting their faces in the rich colors of the tropics.

They played field hockey with the local kids in the wide sand in front of their bungalow, and ate a community meal every Friday evening next to the docks. After the children were sent off to bed, the home-stilled brew would make an appearance and more than once they found themselves waking up on the dock with a crick in their necks but no memory of the night before, although Eric’s phone held some compromising video of partner karaoke.

“Just think how much I could get from TMZ for this,” Eric mused, hitting replay.  

“Hey!” He yelped when Jack snatched the phone from his fingers and tossed it to the floor.

“C’mere,” Jack grunted, sighing when Eric melted into him and met his lips.

He tasted like salt and sun and everything wonderful about this place, and Jack never, ever wanted to leave.

“Do you think we should go home?” Eric would ask, the waves lapping at his toes where they dangled over the dock’s edge.

“No,” Jack would reply, lifting his hand-me-down camera and praying he caught the dolphins frolicking in the surf.

Three weeks in, Jack had an epiphany. “Eric?”

“Hmm?” Eric’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth, as he carefully chopped mango and onions for a salsa for their lunch. He was brown brown brown, from the sun, fresh freckles painting his nose and bare shoulders, and Jack loved him so much it hurt.

“Will you marry me?”

The knife stilled and Eric’s eyes flew to his face. “What?” The word was breathless, hesitant enough Jack knew he understood.

“I don’t remember who asked, the first time,” Jack whispered, because it had always bothered him, that there were some things about that first night they would never know. “But I want to ask you now, because I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The knife edge glinted in the sun when Eric carefully laid it aside and dried his hands. He came around the counter and tucked himself between Jack’s knees, framing his face in his palms and kissing him, once. “Yes,” he said, and Jack was immortal.

When Eric kissed him again, it was everything—promises and forever and love.

Jack rubbed his thumb across his cheek when they parted, still thrilling that he could, that this was his. “I love you.”

He could feel the answering tremble under Eric’s skin.

“I love you, so much,” Eric answered, falling into him again.

They stayed like that until the afternoon’s promise drew them outdoors, where the ocean and the sand and the sun waited and they had all the time in the world.

_/ \\_ 

They were married on the beach at sunset three days later.

Their friends and family surrounded them in barefoot casual on the sand, while a portable record player played Elvis. They exchanged the rings Jack had bought for them.

Shitty performed the ceremony, and then lei’d everyone who stood too still, and Lardo took the wedding photos, a portion of which Jack and Bitty sold to People Magazine. They used all of the proceeds as a start up fund for their brand new non-profit.

Kent wasn’t invited.

Tater cried.

_/ \\_

The tiny island grew small in the distance, and Eric watched it through the oval window until it disappeared. “I’ll miss it,” he said mournfully, clasping Jack’s hand hard against his thigh.

“You don’t have to.” Jack nuzzled his hair; he still smelled like the sea.

“What do you mean?” Eric lowered the window blind and yawned; it was a long flight home and they had nothing to do but nap.

“I bought it.” Jack spread the thin blanket over their legs, ignoring the way Eric tensed beside him.

“Bought what?” He asked slowly, squeezing Jack’s bicep when he didn’t answer.

“The house. Our house.” Jack’s ears burned, although why he felt so squirmy he couldn’t say. He kissed Eric’s cheek to ward off any arguments. “And the beach. It can’t really belong to anyone else, can it?”

Eric’s shocked expression morphed into a grin and a giggle, and then a fully blown laugh.

Jack watched him in consternation as he wiped an errant tear from his cheek. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Eric shook his head. “Just you. You buy islands like most people buy shoes.”

“It wasn’t the _whole_ island,” Jack grumbled. He glared when Eric snorted in response, relenting when he snuggled into his side. His husband was adorable and they were rich and he would by God buy him an island if he wanted to.

“You’re ridiculous, Mr. Zimmermann.” Eric yawned again.

Jack dropped a kiss to his temple and closed his eyes. “That’s Mr. Bittle-Zimmermann, to you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are leaving our happy boys here, as they start their forever. 
> 
> In this week of Thanksgiving, I am thankful for all of you. You've been the brightest spot in many a day. So thank you.
> 
> And never fear--we will visit them again!  
> xoxo,  
> Annie


End file.
